The Shadow of the Flame
by xahra99
Summary: Alistair doesn't want to be a Templar.His superiors attempt to change his mind. It doesn't go well. Written for the 25,000 word plus fantasy fandom fic for the livejournal community scifibigbang. Spoilers. Complete
1. Chapter 1

The Shadow of the Flame

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction by xahra99

Written as a 25,000-plus word fantasy fandom fic for the livejournal community scifibigbang.

Chapter One

Denerim Chantry, 9:25 Dragon Age

_Training Grounds - A Duel with Ser Palamon - The Brawl - Ser Glavin's Regrettable Disappointment_

_I hate this place_. Alistair thought_. I hate it_.

He blinked up at the bright noonday sun that hung like a sovereign above the Chantry training ground. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

The Templar initiates had started their training at dawn with a three-hour route march in full kit. The march had been followed by an hour of exercises under the watchful eye of the ruthless Templar Sergeant Ser Mark. The initiates were on their tenth set of sit-ups, and they were beginning to flag.

_Look on the bright side_, Alistair thought as he pulled himself upright yet again. _In forty years, I'll probably be dead._

He looked up at the Sergeant. _Of course, if that bastard has anything to do with it, I'll be dead much, much sooner._

Ser Mark took a deep breath. He glared disapprovingly at the line of sweating Templar initiates. "You are weak!" he shouted. "You are an insult to the Maker!"

Nobody replied. Nobody had any breath left to reply.

_I hate you_, Alistair thought silently at Ser Mark.

"The apostates will not show weakness!" Ser Mark bawled. "You must be ready, for they will not hesitate. You must strike hard, for they will seek to cut you down. You must recall our Maker's teachings, for they will attempt to ensnare you in lies." He paused for breath. "Now give me twenty more."

Alistair decided that he really loathed the man.

Ser Mark was a tall man with a deeply lined face and the scars of a dozen battles on his body. There were a dozen rumors about him, each more outlandish than the last.

Alistair had heard that Ser Mark had never smiled in his life, except once, when his mother died. He'd heard that Ser Mark brushed his teeth with a mixture of wood alcohol and lye soap. He'd heard that a blood mage had cast twenty sleep spells on Ser Mark in quick succession, one after another, and all Ser Mark had done was blink. He'd heard that Ser Mark had only one testicle, having lost the other to a Dalish archer in a long-ago battle, and that Ser Mark had ripped the elf's arm off and beat him to death with the severed limb.

Alistair had _also_ heard that Ser Mark's hobbies included making fluffy kittens cry blood, but he was sure that story was false.

Ser Mark stared down his nose at the struggling initiates. "You have performed...adequately," he said without losing his sour scowl, "However, physical strength is the least of the Templars' weapons. Let me test your memory." He stalked down the line, staring at each initiate in turn. Alistair held his breath as the Templar Sergeant stabbed out a hand, but Ser Mark's finger pointed not at Alistair but at the initiate next to him. "Ser Aleyne!"

Aleyne Wulff gulped as Ser Mark fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Recite the Second Commandment of the Maker!"

Alistair blinked sweat from his eyes as he watched Aleyne squirm. The Second Commandment was one of the few verses he knew well enough to recall after a punishing morning's training, and Aleyne was one of the few nobles he cared enough about to want to help. "The one about the maleficarum," he hissed under his breath.

Ser Mark had retained his hearing despite years of warfare. His head snapped around. "Ser Alistair!"

Alistair groaned.

"I do not recall asking your opinion on the matter, Alistair. But as you have been so kind as to volunteer, and as Ser Aleyne here," he scowled at Aleyne "seems to have temporarily forgotten all of his training, you will have to do. Recite the verse."

"Oh. Um. Right," Alistair sat up. He ran a hand through sweat-damp hair. "The Second Commandment of the Maker. Magic exists to serve men-"

His breath whooshed out of him as Ser Mark took a step forwards and kicked his hand out from underneath him."Did I _say_ that you could cease your training?"

"No," Alistair said when he had gained enough breath to speak. "Ser,"' he added hastily.

"Then do not stop. Ser Aleyne?"

"Yes, Ser?"

"Three circuits of the field in full armor, if you please. Perhaps a little exercise will refresh your mind."

Alistair heard Aleyne get to his feet and clank glumly off. Sunspots sparkled at the edge of his vision. His stomach muscles screamed like demons. Dimly he heard Ser Mark speaking to the other recruits. "The rest of you, pause for a moment. Listen to the..." he paused," _wisdom_ of your companion. Continue, Alistair."

Alistair returned to his sit-ups. "Uh. The ...second commandment of the Maker. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. "

Ser Mark nodded. "Continue."

Alistair's face burned like Andraste's holy fire. "Foul...foul and corrupt are they, who have taken His gift, and turned it against His-his children." He paused to snatch a breath.

"Memory failing you, is it?"

Alistair shook his head. "They-they shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond." _Just like me_, he thought.

Ser Mark nodded. "You may stop," he said.

Alistair collapsed onto his back in a puddle of sweat and gleaming chain mail. He sucked in air greedily. The sky above was very blue. A tiny puff of dark grey wood-smoke from Andraste's holy fire dotted the bottom right hand corner of his vision. Gradually he became aware that someone was talking to him.

"Ser Alistair?"

Alistair groaned as he pushed himself upright. Ser Mark watched him with bright eyes, as eager as a mabari worrying at a bone. "Your command of the scriptures is astounding, Ser Alistair. Tell me, are the maleficar that Andraste's teachings speak of also apostates?"

Alistair trod the thorny paths of Templar dogma with care. "Apostates are-um, mages outside the tower. Mages that fled the Circle. Or hedge mages-those who never went to the Circle. Maleficar are mages that use the forbidden arts. Blood magic. They're evil."

"Is there any difference between an apostate and a maleficar?" Ser Mark asked softly.

"Um," Alistair hesitated, sensing a trap. "I guess so."

Ser Mark inhaled sharply. "You are wrong, initiate."

"I thought I might be." Alistair muttered.

"Be quiet. You will never be a Templar unless you learn first to hold your tongue."

Alistair searched through his memory for any scrap of information that he could use to win the upper hand. "The Chantry says to forgive first and fight last," he offered.

"Who told you that?" Ser Mark snapped.

Alistair shook his head. "I can't remember." He thought it was one of the Chantry sisters, a quiet, demure little thing that Ser Mark would no doubt eat for breakfast, but he wasn't sure.

Ser Mark took a deep breath. "The brothers and sisters of the Chantry lead a sheltered life," he said. "It is their job to debate the holy scriptures. It is our duty to follow them without question. For is it not written in the sermons of Justinian: 'For she has said to us, "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him?" Therefore, I say to you, they who work magic, which dominates the minds and hearts of others, they have transgressed the Maker's law. In addition, our Lady said to us, "Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." Therefore, it is made clear to me, as it should be to us all: That magic, which fuels itself by harming others, by the letting of blood, is hated by the Maker. Those mages who honor the Maker and keep his laws we welcome as our brothers and sisters. Those who reject the laws of the Maker and the words of His prophet are apostate. They shall be cast out, and given no place among us.'" He glanced around at the initiates. "Any questions?"

It was clear that he did not expect any. One by one, the initiates slowly shook their heads. All except Alistair, whose time in the Chantry had taught him many things, but not when to keep his mouth shut.

"But surely all apostates are not maleficar?" he asked. He hesitated before continuing, lulled into a false sense of complacency by Ser Mark's encouraging silence. "The Dalish have their own training, for example."

"The false gods of the elven folk are no concern of ours," Ser Mark said dismissively. "Maleficar are _humans_, Alistair. They are not elves and they are certainly not dwarves. In my experience, if an apostate is not already a maleficar then it is only a matter of time before they become so. An infection may spread and doom a village if it is not cauterized at its source. If you fail to act promptly, if you underestimate a mage, he or she will kill you. Make no mistake. It is best to strike first.' He looked around at the line of initiates. "Your hesitation in combat may one day cause the deaths of all your companions, Alistair."

Alistair winced. Several of the other initiates glared at him.

"In your case ignorance may very well be bliss, but it is the job of the Templars to dispel ignorance with the sword of truth and the shield of holy scripture."

"Sword of truth."Alistair said. "Got it."

"I do not think you do, initiate. To truly understand the scriptures you must study them ceaselessly. Copy out the relevant passages from the Sermons of Justinian and make sure you have them on my desk by evening. And when you meet with an apostate, as you surely will one day," Ser Mark looked skeptically at Alistair, "I hope you will not falter."

"No, ser."

Ser Mark looked around as Aleyne came panting to a halt. "How nice of you to join us, Ser Aleyne. Just in time for weapons practice."

All of the initiates sighed. Alistair's sigh was a little louder than the rest.

Ser Mark smiled. "Ser Aleyne, you will duel Arcite," he said. "Ser Giles, you will partner Ser Malcolm. Steven will fight Galfrid. And, Ser Alistair?"

"Ser?"

"You will fight Ser Palamon."

Alistair's spirits, already low, sank lower. Palamon was the class's best fighter. He was also one of Ser Mark's pet students, which did nothing to endear him to Alistair. "Yes, ser."

"Very well. Take a break. You have ten minutes."

Alistair got heavily to his feet. He skirted around the other initiates and headed for the water jars. Aleyne trudged sympathetically by his side. "I didn't think you did badly," he said.

Alistair drank deeply. He wiped his mouth before selecting a bated blade from the practice rack. "I didn't do badly? I did worse than badly. And now Palamon's going to beat me into a pulp." He swung the sword. "And he'll probably enjoy it. You'll be fine with Arcite. He fights worse than a drunken nug."

Aleyne laughed. "Yes. But I fought Palamon last week. And I still have the bruises." He glanced over at the big initiate, who was limbering up with his friends. "I think it's time. Good luck."

"And you," Alistair said glumly.

There were several sparring rings marked out with lime on the Chantry grass. He picked the furthest one from Ser Mark and stood in the centre, hoping that he would not be noticed. Palamon spotted him anyway. The noble crossed his arms over his chest and bowed at Alistair as he entered the circle. "Alistair."

Alistair copied the bow, with less enthusiasm."Palamon."

Palamon bowed again and took his place. He adopted the guard of the Ox; sword held horizontally at the level of his eyes. Ser Otto, one of the other Templar weapons masters, said that you could learn a lot about a warrior by observing which posture he used. All Alistair could see was that he was about to be flattened.

He sighed and adopted the guard of the Plow. The tip of his blunted blade pointed hopefully at Palamon's throat. All over the parade ground, the initiates adopted similar positions with varying degrees of success. It was quiet enough that Alistair could hear the delicate hum of the hymns that drifted from the Chantry.

"Begin," Ser Mark bellowed.

Alistair circled slowly, searching for an opening. All he could see was more Ser Palamon. He swung at Palamon's side, but the other initiate pivoted and blocked the move easily. Alistair knew that he would lose a hacking match based solely on strength. He'd have to use skill to beat Palamon.

_I'm doomed_, Alistair thought as he thrust again. Palamon deflected that blow, too. Alistair's mouth was dry. His clothes felt cold and clammy on his body. The damp cotton tickled relentlessly between his shoulder blades. Alistair shook his head and worked his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to scratch. Too late, he felt the tang of magic in the air.

Alistair had been expecting Palamon to attack with Righteous Strike, but he recognized the spell that crawled uncomfortably across his body as Cleanse Area. It was a spell the Templars used rarely in training. As it did not batter him to the ground, Alistair ignored it. He did not use magic himself. Magic required concentration, and right now Alistair's concentration was being slowly eroded away by the strength of Palamon's sword.

Alistair stopped thinking and let his body take over. Palamon hacked away as if he was splitting wood and he didn't seem to tire. Seconds later Alistair felt the tingle of magic again. Palamon roared and brought his sword crashing down. His blade struck sparks from Alistair's sword. Alistair gritted his teeth and turned Palamon's blade aside. The echoes of the cleanse spell still hung in the air and he wondered for the first time why his opponent had bothered.

Seconds later, he had his answer. Palamon hadn't been attacking with the cleanse magic. He'd been ensuring that Alistair couldn't use Templar techniques against him. And this time he _did_ use Righteous Strike.

The blow sent Alistair to his knees. It was too late to turn Palamon's blade away, so he countered it on the flat. Palamon drew his arm back for another blow and Alistair wished he had a shield. He could have used it to punch Palamon in the face. Or, given his position, his knees. He expected Palamon to step in and press home his advantage, but instead the knight bowed again and stepped away, giving Alistair the chance to get to his feet.

_I hate you_, Alistair thought. He managed a half-hearted bow in reply before Palamon attacked again. Alistair's shoulders ached. His stomach ached. In fact, his whole body ached. He was tiring fast.

However, there was one Templar technique Palamon hadn't tried. And the cleanse spell Palamon had cast had almost worn off.

_I need a distraction_, Alistair thought. He knew he couldn't distract Palamon with his blade, so he fell back on his last and most effective weapon, his tongue.

"Hey, Palamon?"

His opponent's eyes narrowed. "Why do you waste time on words?" He swung his sword again in a wide arc that Alistair barely deflected. "Save your breath for blows."

Alistair sought for a topic that would cause the knight to lose his temper. He didn't have to look far. They'd trained together for two years now, and, for better or for worse, all the Templar initiates knew each other well. "I was just wondering?"

"Wondering what?" Palamon's voice held more than a touch of exasperation.

"I was wondering why you were sent to the Chantry. Because I heard that they just wanted you out of the way so you didn't screw up the succession."

As insults went, it was a poor one, but it was the best Alistair could do at short notice. His attention span, divided as it was between Palamon, Palamon's heavy and extremely pointy sword, and the magic he was attempting to summon without Palamon noticing, was short.

Palamon sighed and swung again. The heavy blow that nearly took Alistair's head off. "You heard wrongly. My family has a long and illustrious history of serving with the Templars." He looked at Alistair down his nose. "Something which you would know nothing about, bastard."

Alistair winced. The conversation wasn't exactly going the way that he had planned. "Ouch." He feinted to the side. Palamon didn't fall for it. He fell back on tried and trusted insults. "So you know my mother wasn't noble. No matter. At least she wasn't an Orlesian traitor."

He watched as the insult struck home. Palamon was notoriously touchy about his half-Orlesian heritage.

"You will kindly not..." Palamon punctuated his conversation with shattering blows. "...insult...my...mother!"

Several things happened at once. Alistair's sword snapped under the force of Palamon's blows. The tip of the blade spun to one side and buried itself inch-deep in the soil. Alistair held up the hilt in useless defense as Palamon growled and drew his sword back for another blow, focused in and felt the magic spiral up through him. It wasn't as strong as it could have been-the lyrium that would have lent the enchantment potency was reserved only for full Templars- but it was strong enough.

"Holy Smite!"

The spell burst forth from the hilt of Alistair's useless sword like an avalanche. It hit Palamon in mid-swing and licked over his breastplate like bright fire. It knocked him from his feet and carried him clear out of the practice ring with a noise like a hundred saucepans falling from a wagon.

Alistair dropped his broken sword and collapsed on hands and knees. There was a sudden silence, punctuated only by the hymns drifting from the Chantry and the sound of Ser Mark's slow clapping.

"Very good, Alistair."

Alistair was too exhausted to bask in the rare praise. Ser Mark crossed over to where Palamon lay, blinking owlishly up at the sky. He stretched out his hand and helped Palamon to his feet. "Let this be a lesson to you all," the Templar said, looking around at the frozen duelists, who had without exception stopped their own practice bouts to wonder loudly what all the fuss was about. "It is tempting to focus entirely on swordplay during these matches. Forget the Templar skills and you forget who we are! You forget _what_ we are!" He pointed at Palamon. The initiate leaned on his sword with a dazed expression on his face. "And you _lose_!"

Alistair struggled to his feet. He wiped sweat from his face ineffectively with the back of his mailed gauntlet and picked up the broken pieces of his sword. His arms hurt like hell.

Ser Mark strolled over to him. "Well done, Alistair.' He looked Alistair up and down, as if it were a test. If it was Alistair got the feeling that he had just failed, but he got that feeling from Ser Mark all the time. "Perhaps you are not entirely useless after all."

Alistair bowed as best he could.

Ser Mark raised his voice. "Well done, initiates. We shall continue this lesson another time. Meditate on what you have just learned. Ser Palamon, you will have removed the dents from your armor by the next time you arrive on this practice field. Ser Alistair?"

"Yes, ser?"

"Don't think that I've forgotten about the scriptures. I want them on my desk by evening. All relevant passages. Understand?"

Alistair, who had been hoping that Ser Mark had indeed forgotten, nodded. "Yes, ser."

The templar sergeant nodded. "Dismissed."

Alistair left the field as quickly as he could. He evaded both his friends, who wished to congratulate him, and Palamon's cronies, who darted evil looks at him like arrows. He skirted around the dormitories where the rest of the initiates would be at rest and he slunk off to the Chantry to find a quill and some parchment. One of the more sympathetic Sisters gave him some much-used scraps of paper. Alistair sanded the scraps clean and spent the rest of the afternoon copying lines from the library's extremely thick edition of Justinian's sermons. He was unsure which passages were relevant so he copied them all, as he suspected Ser Mark had intended. His right arm ached by the time that he had finished and his handwriting was all but illegible, but the work was complete. Ser Mark had only asked him to copy the scriptures; he hadn't specified that they be legible.

_At least I've finished the damned thing_, Alistair thought as he headed for Ser Mark's study to hand the papers in.

As he pushed open the door, he had the first piece of luck that day. The study was empty. Alistair congratulated himself on his timing. He left the papers on the sergeant's desk and fled, wondering as he went how such a pointless task would make him a better Templar.

_Because when I meet some maleficar out in the woods, I'm sure an encyclopedic knowledge of bloody scripture is going to help_.

He considered returning to the dormitory and rejected it out of hand. Aleyne would probably be there, but so would Palamon. Denerim was out of bounds. There was always the Chantry, but Alistair had had all the sermons he could take for one day.

_Besides, I don't think the Maker's likely to answer my prayers for a way out of His holy orders._

That left only one place to go.

Alistair hurried to the back of the Chantry, hoping nobody noticed him. Nobody did. Tucked away in the far western corner was an overgrown and forgotten graveyard. It was rarely used; cremation having replaced burial as the funeral method of choice for all good Andrastians over the last fifty years. The gravestones were crumbling and ancient. Their inscriptions were indecipherable.

Alistair sank down behind the tallest stone in the most overgrown corner of the courtyard. He shook out his cramped right hand, flopped on his back and stared up at the sky. The walls of the Chantry and the rooftops of Denerim ringed his view. The sight of the town usually reminded Alistair that there was more to life than the Chantry, but this time it failed to lift his spirits. He could see his life stretching out before him, filled with war and duty and an early death in battle.

_If I'd chosen this life, then things would be different, _he thought_._

Nobody in their right mind would actually _choose _to be a Templar, but then most of the Templar initiates hadn't been chosen as much as sent. Some of them came from families with a tradition of sending excess sons to the Chantry. The remainder hailed from common families in Denerim. Maybe the rest of the initiates were as unhappy with their lot as he was, but if that was true then they hid it damn well. Maybe they actually looked forwards to a lifetime of hunting down half-trained mages.

_Or maybe it's just me. __I was unhappy at Redcliffe. I'm unhappy here, and I'll probably be unhappy somewhere else in the future._

_Great._

Alistair knew that there were good points about the Chantry. It offered shelter, discipline, food and all the scripture you could swallow. Right now it was hard for him to think of more. He toyed with possibilities in his mind. _I could run away. Return to Redcliffe. Join the Crimson Oars. Or the Crows. I could smuggle lyrium or become a famous knight. _

_Of course, with my luck, I'd probably end up dead in a ditch_.

_Great Maker's breath!_ _I can't do this anymore. There must be more to life than this._

He sighed, pulled his knees up to his chest and let his gaze roam over the Chantry grounds. A tall palisade of rough logs separated the monastery from the sisters' quarters. It blocked most of the sounds and all of the light, but if Alistair concentrated, he could just make out the voices of female initiates on the other side of the wall. They seemed to be having slightly more fun than Alistair was, although he was too far away to make out any of the specifics.

He found the sound of their chatter unsettling. The last woman he'd had anything to do with had been Isolde, and she had hated him. It had been eight years ago, but the memories still smarted.

He could still remember the tightening of her lips every time she looked at him, the wrinkles that appeared between her eyes as she frowned, trying to work out whether Alistair was really Eamon's bastard or not. She'd never come straight out and said it-that would have been unspeakably rude-, but she'd gone out of her way to make things hard for him. His dreams of returning home were as unlikely as his fantasies of becoming a pirate or a knight.

_No, I can't go back. There's no place for me at Redcliffe. I have to stay here and learn to make the best of things._

Alistair pushed the cloud of self-pity away from him like a cloak and looked up at the sky. The light had already begun to fade. He'd be expected back in the Chantry for evening prayers before too long.

Alistair got to his feet. He brushed earth from his breeches and groaned at the aches and pains in his back. Wrapped in thought, he failed to notice the small group of initiates walking down the tiny path that ringed the graveyard. He was already on the path before he even noticed them.

By the time he did, it was far too late.

The Templar initiates were made up of nobles, commoners and those like Alistair who sat wedged uncomfortably somewhere in between. It was abundantly clear to which group these initiates belonged. If they were ever sliced in half by an opponent on the battlefield, he'd find 'noble sons' written all the way through them.

Alistair kept his eyes down and attempted to shoulder through them, but one of the nobles stopped him with a negligent hand on his shoulder.

"Well, if it isn't Arl Eamon's bastard!"

Alistair sighed. "What do you want, Giles?"

The noble stepped back and looked superciliously down at Alistair. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked.

Alistair sidestepped, trying to avoid the small group, but they closed around him and he knew that he was doomed. He caught a glimpse of Palamon and Arcite at the back of the crowd. "Trying to avoid you lot."

Giles chortled. "Ha. Good idea, that." He smiled widely. His teeth were white and sharp as a drake's "I heard you've got a grudge against Orlesians."

Alistair shook his head. "I've got no quarrel with Orlesians. I just said that to get a rise out of Palamon. And it worked."

All eyes turned to Palamon, who scowled and touched a bruise darkening around his right eye. "That was not a gentlemanly act," he said stiffly.

"As Ser Giles here has taken such pains to point out, I'm hardly a gentleman. But I'm sorry."

Palamon nodded curtly. The gesture could have come from a book of Orlesian etiquette. _Position Ten: Accepting Apologies from Companions of a Lower Rank than Oneself_. "I accept your apology."

Giles frowned. "Don't act so hastily, Palamon. This..." he paused "..._commoner_ has not just insulted our Palamon with his poorly-chosen remarks. He's insulted _me_."

"Oh come on." Alistair said. "This is ridiculous. You weren't even there."

Giles's smile widened. "I'm guessing you didn't know that _my_ mother was Orlesian?"

"Er, no." Alistair said with a sinking feeling in his chest. Of _course, _the afternoon's combat didn't have anything to do with Giles. Palamon was a noble, but he was an honorable one. Giles was a noble and a nasty, vindictive arse. "But that-"

"Would you not retaliate if somebody insulted your mother, Alistair?" Giles asked with a grin.

Alistair sighed. "If you wanted to beat me up, why didn't you just say so?" He could see exactly where Giles' needling was heading. It was going to end up with Alistair on the floor spitting teeth, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Giles shook his head. "It is a matter of honor," he said. "I'm not surprised that you do not understand. Let me explain. For example, if I were to say that dear Arl Eamon was far too pure and self-righteous to sire a child out of wedlock that would be a compliment. But if I were to say that your mother was a common whore who opened her legs for every man in Redcliffe castle, now that _would _be an in-"

Giles got no further, because Alistair punched him in the stomach. It was a good blow, with all the force of Alistair's anger behind it. It should have wiped the smile from Giles's smug face and knocked the wind out of him for good measure. It was a pity that Giles had retained his uniform breastplate under his doublet. Alistair did more damage to his hand than he did to Giles's chest.

"You'll regret that," Giles said conversationally as Alistair winced and cradled his hand.

"I doubt it."

"I wouldn't be so sure. For the laws of chivalry state that no true knight can suffer a blow to land on him without first returning it-" He raised his hand and backhanded Alistair across the face. Alistair saw the blow coming a mile away. He stepped back; attempting to avoid it, but the press of the small crowd around him forced him right into the punch and gave him no room to maneuver. The crowd parted like the waves as Alistair toppled backwards onto the cobbled path.

Arcite stepped forwards and aimed a kick at Alistair's ribs. Alistair twisted away, trying desperately to avoid it, but Giles put a hand on the initiate's arm. "He's got to get up first," he said gently, "Then we can hit him. We are _gentlemen_, after all."

Alistair wiped his mouth. He shook out his aching hand. "No. Can't have you stooping to my level. Stooping is bad." He stared at his skinned knuckles. "Maker's breath. That hurt."

"You only have yourself to blame,' Giles said reprovingly, "Really, I don't know why the Chantry wastes their time on you. You'll never make a Templar."

Alistair looked up from his position on the floor. As long as he didn't get up, he reasoned, he was safe. Ser Giles would never lower himself to hit a prone opponent."Good. I don't want to be a Templar. I've got better things to do with my time than murder Chasind and wilders."

"How fortunate for you that you will never make the grade," Giles murmured silkily. "Besides, it is not murder. The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker guides their hands."

Alistair snorted. "Righteous? You? That's a laugh."

Giles' face twisted. "I should teach you a lesson," he snapped, "It's a good idea to shut your mouth when you're outnumbered." He beckoned Alistair up. "Get up, bastard, so I can hit you honorably."

Alistair had no intention of getting up just so Ser Giles could knock him down again. "I might be a bastard, but at least I'm not a noble," he said. "They say the scum always floats to the top of the pot."

Giles scowled. "Nobles are the sword of the Chantry," he said. "You will never be a Templar. And you will never be a gentleman." He gestured to a couple of his cronies. Arcite and Stephen bent down and grabbed Alistair's arms. They dragged him, protesting, to his feet.

Alistair, reluctantly upright, took one look at Giles's face and knew that he was in trouble. The noble wore gauntlets as well as his breastplate, and Alistair had no desire to collect more bruises to match the split lip Giles had already forced on him."Is five against one gentlemanly?" he inquired. "Come on, fight me one on one."

He watched Giles consider the options. Alistair had never been good at barehanded combat, but he wagered that Giles was even worse. Nobles did not _brawl_.

"Go on," someone said from the back of the crowd. "You can take him."

Palamon shook his head. "I don't think this is a good idea," he said to thin air.

Giles raised his chin. "I don't have to prove anything to you, bastard."

"Prove to me you're not afraid," Alistair invited.

He should have known better than to call Giles' bluff in front of all his friends. The noble took a step back and punched him. It was probably meant to be a gentle blow. Regardless, it caught Alistair on the temple. He reeled back into Arcite, who pushed him forwards, expecting him to fold. Alistair lashed out and, more out of luck than judgment, caught Giles on the chin. Giles toppled backwards like a felled sylvan. He fell into Stephen, who pushed him away instinctively. Giles, semi-conscious, mistook Stephen for Alistair-it was an easy mistake to make, they were both blond-and punched _him_ instead.

Stephen hit Giles back more out of surprise than real malice. Alistair lashed out again and hit Palamon this time. Palamon snarled and let fly. Alistair ducked hastily and Palamon bloodied Arcite's nose over Alistair's head.

Then it all went to hell in a wagon. There was only so much of Alistair to go around. Not all the nobles could punch him at once, so they punched each other. This sparked more feuds, and soon the small crowd of nobles that had gathered on the path was a wild brawling mess of men.

They scattered about five minutes later, when Ser Mark opened the window of his study and bawled in amazement. "All of you stop it _now_."

Alistair's brain finally kicked in. Through the muggy mists of semi-consciousness, he realized that he was lying on his back with someone who was not Palamon _or_ Ser Giles punching him in the face. There was another bellow. His opponent vanished like melting snow.

Alistair groaned and dragged himself to his knees. He looked around. There was a conspicuous absence of other initiates. Palamon rolled in the grass of the graveyard a few strides from Alistair, making bubbling noises.

He looked around for Giles and stared instead into the scarlet face of Ser Mark. The Templar Sergeant took a deep, joyous breath. "What is all this about?" he inquired.

"I can explain," Alistair said hopelessly.

"Then please do."

"Um." Alistair brushed at his clothing. His surcoat was ruined; streaked with mud, grass stains and blood. "Okay, maybe I can't."

"I am so surprised." Ser Mark said sarcastically. "And you, Ser Palamon?"

The noble had pulled himself to his knees. He held his head tipped back to staunch the flow of blood from his nose."No, Ser. I'm sorry."

Ser Mark looked from one bleeding face to another. "Knight Commander," he snapped. "Both of you. Now."

"Yes, Ser." Alistair groaned in chorus with Palamon. He stood up tentatively and winced. His few remaining muscles that weren't already aching from training were making themselves known. His body was a blaze of pain.

Ser Mark marched them in silence to the Knight-Commander's office. Ser Glavin looked up as they entered.

"Palamon? I am surprised," he said, and then his gaze turned to Alistair. "And Alistair. Well, I am not. I rather hoped you'd reformed when Ser Mark told me of your performance in the training ground this afternoon. It looks like I was wrong."

"Sorry, Ser," Alistair muttered.

"You will only speak when directly asked a question, initiate!" Ser Mark bawled.

The Knight-Commander winced. "You should be fighting maleficarum, not brawling like common folk amongst yourself," he said reprovingly. It was a familiar litany.

_The Templars have a proud heritage_, Alistair said under his breath.

"For the Templars have a proud heritage, and -_wipe that smile off your face Ser Alistair. I think you'll find that you have nothing to smile about_-and you shall not-I repeat _not_-drag our name through the dust by brawling like commoners!" His gaze flicked from Alistair to Palamon and back again. "You are comrades in arms. You should have no reason to fight."

_We are comrades in name only_, Alistair thought. He waited for the inevitable punishment, wondering if it would be prayers or extra training.

Ser Mark moved behind the desk and whispered in Ser Glavin's ear. The Knight-Commander's expression grew a little more severe. "Ser Mark tells me that you did not fight alone," he said. "Your punishment will be less harsh if you tell me the names of the other initiates who joined in." He glanced from one face to the other. "Well?"

Alistair shook his head. Whatever punishment Ser Glavin would assign would be soft compared to what the other initiates would deal to Alistair if he ratted them out.

The Knight-Commander sighed, as Alistair's silence was yet more evidence of his regrettable criminal tendencies. He turned to Palamon. "Ser Palamon?"

Palamon knew the unspoken rules of the initiates as well as Alistair did. He mutely shook his head.

The Knight-Commander's face turned scarlet. "You have both brought the brotherhood into disrepute!" he thundered.

Alistair hung his head. He didn't want to be a Templar. In fact, he couldn't decide which was worse-failing the test, or passing it and becoming one of the stone-faced men and women that were little more than weapons. However, neither did he want to be waiting before Knight-Commander Glavin at this particular moment.

_I'll die first. I'll go crazy. I'll jump off Fort Drakon's tower and-_

"Alistair!"

Alistair looked up.

"Are you listening?"

"I was-uh-contemplating the severity of my crimes," Alistair lied.

The Knight-Commander shook his head. "I believe that both you boys are in need of a lesson in perspective," he said. "There is an expedition leaving for the Bannorn tomorrow morning. They are going to apprehend an illegal mage. It should be an easy mission. You will go with them. Ser Mark will command you."

It was almost worth the pulled muscles and the split lip to see the expression of surprise that Ser Mark tried, but did not altogether succeed at concealing. "Knight-Commander?" he asked. "These lads should be punished. Not rewarded."

"The mission will remind these boys why they want to be Templars," Ser Glavin said.

_I don't want to be a Templar,_ Alistair said silently, although even he was not rash enough to say that to the Knight-Commander's face.

Ser Mark cuffed him around the shoulder. "Thank the Knight-Commander, boys."

Alistair joined in with Ser Palamon's markedly more enthusiastic response. "Thank you, Ser,"

Knight-Commander Glavin waved one hand. "You may go," he said.

Alistair bowed hastily and left the study. He did not wait for Palamon before hurrying down the corridor back to the dormitory. He heard Palamon call out behind him, but he did not pause until he reached the small room he shared with Aleyne and four more Templars in training.

The dormitory was quiet and blessedly empty. Aleyne had spread out all his armor in the middle of the floor and was industriously polishing a helmet with a rag. He looked up from the centre of a pile of greaves and gauntlets as Alistair entered. "Was it that bad?"

Alistair flopped down on the bed with one hand across his eyes. "I suppose it could've been worse."

Aleyne looked sympathetically across at him. "Here," he offered, "I cleaned your armor too. What did they assign you? Extra chores?"

Alistair outlined the afternoon's events, only to find that Aleyne's reaction was not what he had been expecting. "That's great!" his friend said enthusiastically. "I thought you'd be punished for sure!"

"This _is_ a punishment."

"No, it's not. You get to go outside the Chantry! Outside Denerim, even!"

"I'm still with the Templars," Alistair said. "Andraste's flaming sword! I'll have Ser Mark breathing down my neck, and Palamon, and who knows what else?"

"Some of us," Aleyne said pointedly," might think that being a Templar isn't such a bad thing."

Alistair rolled over. "I'm sorry. I'm just...er, nothing.' He hesitated. "Maybe it's just me."

"Maybe it is," Aleyne said. He didn't speak to Alistair again until the evening Chant and then only to intone the Canticle of Benedictions.

Alistair didn't mind. He had enough to think about. He winged the service with the ease of long, long practice; repeating scripture without thinking about the meaning of the words, rising and sitting again at the appropriate times. After the service, the initiates were dismissed straight to their dorms. It was the first time Alistair had ever been thankful for the Chantry's strict curfew.

He lay on his bunk and stared up at the rafters. Below him, Aleyne managed to sound disapproving even while snoring.

_All I want is not to be surrounded by people who think I'm not a complete idiot_, he thought.

_Of course, maybe things wouldn't be different. Maybe I _am_ just a complete idiot._

The thought was not reassuring. Alistair fell asleep nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 2

The Shadow of the Flame

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Two.

_Preparations - Palamon and the Pickpocket - The Bannorn- The Maleficar_

The clanging of the Chantry bell woke Alistair, and the position of the sun on the wall told him that he wasn't late.

_Yet_, Alistair thought. He threw off the itchy blanket and jumped out of bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the ground. He winced again as bruised muscles tightened in the cold air. It was icy in the dormitory, but then it always was, apart from a few weeks in midsummer, when it became stiflingly hot instead.

He elbowed a sleepy Aleyne out the way and dragged a creased shirt from the chest by his bed. It had a name that wasn't Alistair's stitched into the neck, but at least it was clean. He pulled the garment on hastily before anyone else noticed. A padded jacket and thick trousers designed to be worn under mail went on top. He sat on the chest to pull his boots on and poked Aleyne with a bare toe that poked out from the hole in his right sock.

"Mn'nin," Aleyne grunted.

"You'll be late," Alistair warned.

"Got time."

The sliver of morning sunlight that etched the wall had moved a bare fraction. Alistair shook his head. "You haven't. Second bell rings soon."

Aleyne yawned. He pulled the blanket off his head and got up. "Wha' time?"

"First bell's rung already. But you've got a few minutes." Alistair rubbed his chin. "Think I need to shave?"

"Mn. Yes. No. Don't care." Aleyne yawned hugely.

Alistair frowned. He rubbed his chin again and decided that he was already too late to shave. He hunted in his chest for his worry ring and came up without it. "Seen my ring?" He pulled another shirt out of the chest and found the ring knotted in its folds. "Oh. Wait. It's okay. I got it."

Aleyne frowned. "You can't wear that. The Sergeant will notice. He'll say it's a superstitious bit of arcane nonsense. You know what he's like."

Alistair frowned. The ring, for all its runes, was about as arcane as a teapot. "It's my lucky ring."

"It'll be luckier if you leave it here."

Alistair glanced distrustfully around at the other four members of the dormitory, who were too busy to notice. He slid the ring on his finger, twisted it around, pulled it off again and stashed it back in his chest.

Muttering a hurried goodbye to Aleyne, he headed for the armory by way of the breakfast hall.

Ser Palamon and a small group of Templars were already waiting in the armory. Alistair recognized most of them. There was Ser Kyan, a tall, ascetic woman who tapped her foot impatiently and looked at Alistair as if he was a piece of mud upon her shoe. There was Ser Percival, a jovial, blond Templar who Alistair did not know well. And there was Ser Mark, who he knew only _too_ well.

Ser Mark coughed as Alistair approached. "Ah. Ser Alistair. So glad that you could join us."

Alistair bowed stiffly. "Ser."

"Collect your armor and weapons, initiate. Once you are equipped, we shall meet in the main hall for the Blessing. Do not tarry."

Alistair nodded. He picked a set of initiate's scale armor from a wooden mannequin and armored up. Ser Palamon followed him. The armor was decent but worn. Alistair tightened straps and buckles. He swung his arms, trying and failing to achieve a better fit.

"I hate this stuff," he said _sotto voce_ to Palamon. "It's like one size doesn't _quite_ fit all."

Ser Palamon, who was the size and shape favored by the Templars (something akin to a turnip with a radish balanced on top) snorted. "You should train more."

"I train all the time. Only way I could get more training in would be if I did it in my _sleep_."

"That can be arranged." Ser Mark said from behind Alistair.

Alistair gulped. The Templar Sergeant, for all his bulk, could move as softly as a spider when the mood took him. "Yes, ser." He rapped the breastplate with his knuckles. "I just thought we'd you know, get proper Templar armor or something."

"Templar armor is reserved only for Templars. Which you are not. Nor will you be, if keep on asking questions and making foolish jokes."

"So this is supposed to protect us against a maleficar?"

"No armor forged," Ser Mark snarled, "will protect you against a maleficar. The only thing that will do that is the power of your faith and the strength of your sword."

Alistair hoped he didn't look as doubtful as he felt. "Okay," he said. "I just feel like bait."

"How perceptive of you," Ser Mark growled, and moved on.

Alistair felt better once he no longer had the Templar Sergeant breathing down his neck, and he felt much better after he collected a sword from the weapons rack. Alistair had grown up with blades in the great castle at Redcliffe, and the Templars made good weapons.

_It must be all that faith, _he thought as he checked the blade for rust. It was an average Templar sword, which meant that it was superior to most Ferelden swords and cost more than a commoner would earn in a year. The edge was bright and untarnished-a far cry from the nicked and bated practice blades. Alistair admired it for a moment, distracted by the shiny steel.

Palamon coughed. "They're waiting."

Alistair picked a purple Templar surcoat from a pile of identical tabards. He buckled the sword belt on top and thought that he would have looked rather dashing if it hadn't been for the color of the Templar crest, which was bright purple bordered with gold.

"I always wondered," he said to Ser Palamon s they walked to the Chantry. "Why _purple_? It's not exactly a color that strikes fear into the hearts of our enemies, is it? I would have expected black. Or white, even. Red, maybe."

Palamon grunted. "You think too much," he said.

"That's the first time anybody's told me that," Alistair said, surprised.

"My mistake. You talk too much and think too little."

Alistair couldn't think of a witty reply. "Well, you-you're a prat."

Palamon sniffed. He ignored Alistair from then on; maintaining a dignified silence until they both reached the Chantry. The Chantry in Denerim was one of the largest halls in Ferelden. It was airy and high ceilinged and on a day like this, bitterly cold. The racks of devotional candles that burned against each wall gave off little light and no heat at all. Alistair tried to shiver without his armor clanking. It was, he soon discovered, very difficult.

He had expected one of the Revered Mothers to lead the Chant, or even the Grand Cleric herself. Instead, he saw Knight Commander Glavin waiting at the lectern.

"Kneel," he said to the small party.

Alistair followed the lead of Ser Palamon, who was following the other Templars, and knelt, with his arms crossed over his chest. _Maker's breath_, he thought as the old man intoned the blessing. _I wish he'd just get on with it. It's colder than here than outside. I thought that wasn't possible._

It seemed like an eternity before the Knight Commander ordered them all to stand. He flicked the sacred ashes from the votive candles over each of them in turn as he muttered a prayer. Alistair held his breath and tried his best not to sneeze. He half-expected the ashes to turn into a puff of smoke or sizzle away as they touched his armor, but they just slid from the polished steel like they had so many times before. The Knight-Commander made his slow way down the aisle of the Chantry, blessing each man in turn, and then he returned to the lectern and flung his arms wide. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, shall find true peace," he intoned.

_Canticle of Transfigurations, Verse Ten_, Alistair thought despite his best efforts. _In Andraste's name! I have to get out of this place before I go mad._

Knight Commander Glavin clanked to the Chantry's main doors and flung them open, wheezing a little with the effect. "Go in the Maker's Light," he ordered.

Alistair bowed his head and followed the other men from the dim hall into the grey light of a springtime morning. The sun that had greeted him on waking had dispersed, replaced by a sky the color of ashes. Rain drizzled from leaden clouds.

Despite the weather, Alistair was elated. He felt as if he had been released from a cage as they passed the stone gates of the Chantry. The Templar guards at the gates crossed their arms across their chest and bowed as the small group walked by. Denerim awaited. Alistair was free.

He was brought back to earth rudely a few moments later when someone tried to steal his purse as they trudged across the marketplace to the great stone gates. Nobody would dare steal from a Templar, but the ragamuffins that haunted the square were desperate enough to consider the initiates fair game. Alistair caught the scrawny girl's hand at the last moment. After the initial shock, he loosened his grip, conscious of the bones that protruded sharply from her skinny wrist. "Don't try that."

The girl blinked at him with great sunken eyes. She seemed mute, or so terrified that she had lost the power of speech. Alistair reached for his pouch with his free hand. He thumbed it open and flicked her a coin. "Take this."

"She'll just take it to her parents," Palamon said disapprovingly as the child raced away. "And _they_'ll just spend it on strong ale or cheap whores."

Alistair blinked. "Doesn't the Chant say something about charity?"

"Well, yes. But there's charity, and there's just being stupid."

"I'm not stupid." Alistair said defensively. He gestured at Palamon's belt. "Beside, you should look to your own purse."

Palamon groped for his cut purse strings. He spluttered. "That little-"

'There's charity, and then there's just being stupid," Alistair said. He pointed at the skinny girl. She sat on her heels in the mud, clutching the coin. "That was charity. That-" he pointed at Palamon's empty belt," was stupid."

"Shut up." Palamon snarled.

Alistair fell silent, but the grumpy expression on Ser Palamon's face made him chuckle all the way out of Denerim.

His good mood did not last out the morning. If it had not been for the continuous rain, the muddy paths and Ser Mark breathing down his neck, he might have been a little more cheerful. As it was, the foul weather soaked into his boots and dulled his spirits.

Beside him, Ser Mark took a great lungful of air. The rain was so heavy Alistair thought it was a wonder he didn't drown. "Ah! The thrill of the chase, boys!" he said as he exhaled, spitting water from his beard. "This is why we all became Templars."

"Actually, I became a Templar because-" Alistair began, and stopped at the look on Ser Mark's face.

"It's certainly nice to get out of the Chantry," Ser Palamon said.

"At least it was _dry_ in the Chantry." Alistair muttered. "How much further?"

"Oh, a few days," Ser Mark said breezily, as if the length of their journey was of no consequence whatsoever. 'The Maker will guide our steps."

"I wish the Maker would stop it raining."

"Alistair, act like a Templar. Do not whine." Palamon gestured around them. They trudged through muddy rain-swept fields. "Things could be worse. You could be a commoner."

"You're a prat." Alistair told him.

Ser Mark intervened as Palamon's face turned a rather alarming shade of red. "Ser Palamon, kindly hold your tongue. The Templar Order is not composed entirely of nobles, whatever you might think. Our duty is to serve the common folk. We protect them from the ravages of foul magic and they aid us in our mission of mercy. Ser Alistair, hold your tongue or I will run this sword through you. You will not melt."

"I'll rust." Alistair muttered. He had not intended anybody to hear, but Ser Mark heard him anyway.

"If you rust, then you will have to clean that rust off tonight. I told you to be silent."

Alistair nodded. "Tongue. Sword. I got it."

Palamon looked smug. "What sort of maleficar are we hunting?" he asked.

_Suck-up_, Alistair thought.

Ser Mark shrugged. His massive steel armor clanked together with a noise like grinding rocks. "You will see." Despite Alistair's best efforts, he volunteered nothing more. They walked on in silence through the continuous rain.

The camp they pitched that night was wet and muddy. Alistair had hoped that they would stop at a village, or even a tavern, but they camped under the shelter of a small copse of trees. Ser Mark set Alistair and Palamon to work cleaning their armor before he joined the other Templars. The knights sat around the fire on logs they had dragged into a rough circle. They looked like heroes straight out of the legends, but they didn't look they were having much fun.

Alistair rubbed wax into his breastplate with a cloth. "I was right," he said morosely."My armor's rusting already."

"At least we're not in heavy plate like them," Palamon said. He looked over at the Templars. Rain dripped off his nose and soaked into his surcoat. "Can you imagine trudging through mud in full kit?"

"I did wonder about that," Alistair said. "Oh, sure, they say it's because we're not full Templars, but they could have given us plate armor without the Sword of Mercy on it. I think it's because we're expendable. D'you reckon Ser Mark's going to use us as bait?"

"Don't be silly." Palamon said. "Although if you carry on whining he might make an exception."

"I don't whine."

"You never stop. Look, if you hate it that much, why don't you leave? Do us all a favor."

Alistair rolled his eyes. "Oh. How observant of you. I don't know why I haven't thought of that already."

"Don't mock me," Palamon said dangerously. He rubbed at a spot of rust on his mail.

"I'm not. I tried. Four times, in fact. Once I hitched a ride on a caravan and made it all the way to Redcliffe."

"Why didn't you stay?"

"Things-things had changed." _Isolde gave birth to Connor, and decided she didn't want her husband's bastard son cluttering up the place_. "Arl Eamon sent me back."

"Oh." Palamon wiped his nose. "Well, why don't you make the best of it? Move on."

"That's all right for you to say. You're a noble."

"So? Your father's a noble. Even if you _are_ a bastard."

"Mmm. It's a pity that people always leave the noble bit out."

"Oh, come on. Half the Order are bastards. Don't be so touchy."

Alistair put a bit more force into his polishing. "It's all right for _you_. You have your father and your family. And that glorious old tradition of sending sons to the Templars."

Palamon looked miserable. "Well, maybe that's all not it's cracked up to be."

"What d' you mean?" Alistair asked curiously.

"You were right. The reason my family sends its youngest sons to the Chantry is to stop them meddling with the succession. We're not so different, you and I. We were both sent to the Chantry to get us out of the way."

"Oh. Sorry," Alistair said, and wondered why being right for once felt so bad. "I apologize."

"Maybe you're the lucky one, not being a noble," Palamon said. "At least you have more freedom. You don't have to hang around with Giles and his pack."

"I thought you liked Giles?" Alistair said. He had not expected Palamon to confess his thoughts so easily.

"His father's a friend of mine," Palamon said. "It's complicated. And political. At least your Arl Eamon's a good man."

"He is," Alistair said.

Palamon gave him an odd look. "But it's funny. You certainly don't look much like him. In fact, you remind me of someone else. Someone...familiar. But I can't think who."

"I must look like my mother," Alistair said. He inched back into the shadows ever so slightly and hoped that Palamon was not familiar with King Maric or his son. Palamon just shook his head and polished industriously.

_Maybe he's not such a prat after all. Maybe he's just a rich noble's son who doesn't want to be here anymore than I do_, Alistair thought. The thought was troubling and unsatisfactory. It had been much easier when he'd had a reason to dislike Ser Palamon rather than simple jealousy.

He rubbed at his mail and succeeded only in streaking mud over its surface. As Alistair's luck would have it. Ser Mark chose that very moment to saunter over. "How're you doing, lads?"

"Very well, ser," Palamon said.

Ser Mark peered at the armor. "Very well?" He tapped Alistair's breastplate. "You call this well?"

"It's muddy," Alistair said defensively.

"The armor of faith should be kept shining brightly," Ser Mark said. "See to it. I want to see my smiling face in those breastplates by morning."

Palamon and Alistair nodded dispiritedly. Ser Mark squelched off. They watched him go in shared misery.

"We'll need a miracle to get this stuff clean." Alistair said.

"Better pray to Andraste, then." Palamon said, and scrubbed harder.

They set off at dawn the next morning. The Templars marched in front and set a hard pace. Alistair, whose wet boots were beginning to rub his heels, gazed enviously at a pair of horses grazing in a field as they marched past. "Maker help us," he said _sotto voce_ to Palamon, "I wish we'd brought a wagon."

"I wish we'd brought saddles." Palamon glanced over at the horses. "Though I doubt those poor beasts would carry us far. The black's lame, and the chestnut mare has Withrow's shingles in both of her front feet. Poor girl."

Alistair looked at the horses. They looked perfectly all right to him. "I'm glad Templars can't ride. I fall off horses. It's this thing I do."

"I don't." Palamon said enviously.

"How'd you know so much about horses, anyway?"

"I miss the horses back at home. I had a horse of my own in Ramsdale." Palamon sighed. "Once I take lyrium, I'll never be able to ride again. They don't like it."

_Then horses and I have at least one thing in common_, Alistair thought. He tested the waters cautiously. "What'd do you think of that, exactly?"

"The lyrium?" Palamon looked confused. "It's an honor."

"It's a drug."

"It helps us to develop our talents."

"It's addictive. It lets the Chantry _control _us."

"They _already_ control us."

"You say that like it's a good thing." Alistair said.

"It _is_ a good thing." Ser Mark said without looking around. He dropped back and threw a huge arm around each of their shoulders. Alistair wondered if the gesture was meant to be reassuring. He guessed it probably wasn't. "It reminds us of our servitude. You cannot be a Templar without taking lyrium." He looked at each of them. "And you _will_ become Templars. I will see to it personally. Even if it-" and he looked pointedly at Alistair, "it kills me."

"Lucky me." Alistair said.

Ser Mark sighed. "Or if it kills you, Alistair. Which is somewhat more likely."

Palamon snickered. Alistair glared at him evilly.

They arrived in the village by lunchtime. It was a tiny place. It had no Chantry and no tavern. It didn't even have a name. The houses were simple, single-story dwellings surrounded by a shoulder-high fence of wooden palings. They were fashioned of crude logs and roofed with shingles made of split planks. All of the houses were speckled with green moss. The village seemed to grow up out of the scrubby weeds of the Bannorn.

"Wilders," Palamon muttered disapprovingly.

Alistair said nothing. He found the sheer poverty of the village depressing. The meanest of Arl Eamon's villages was better kept than this. The fields that they'd passed on the way in were scrubby and barren. The village should have had more livestock, better defenses, and more people. However, the man who came to meet them looked, if not happy, then at least content. A large healing scar ran down one gaunt cheek and his clothes were clean although tattered.

Ser Mark greeted him. "Ho there, good man. Are you the leader of this village?"

The commoner shrugged. "Might as well be," he said.

Ser Mark's brow furrowed like a well-ploughed field. "No Chantry?"

"We're not ones to bow down to the Chantry."

Alistair thought that Ser Mark would plunge straight into the reason for their visit, but the old sergeant was more subtle than Alistair had given him credit for. He smiled. Behind him, Alistair and the other heavily armed Templars completely failed to fade into the background. "How goes the harvest?"

"How do you think? Not well, at least not to begin with. Things have been looking up more recently. We don't have much, here," The commoner spat accurately into the mud at his feet. "Not like you fancy lot up in Denerim."

"We are here to help you." Ser Mark said reprovingly.

"I just bet you are."The commoner spat again. "I told you, we don't like the Chantry much up here. Bloke came up here to spread the Chant about a year ago. Lasted three weeks before the hard work did for him and he went bawling back to the city like a little boy who'd had his arse whipped."

Ser Mark's smile grew. "We are not scared of hard work," he said.

The commoner looked sideways at the light glinting from the Templars' sharp swords. "I just bet you aren't."

"As you know, we are Templars," Ser Mark said. "Our work tends more towards the practical than the metaphysical. We protect the people of Ferelden from the ravages of foul magic."

"Magic?' the peasant said hurriedly."None of that here."

"I think you are wrong." Ser Mark said pleasantly. "We have heard of a maleficar living in this very village. She is the reason we are here. "

"Minstrel's rumors. Nothing more."

"This is a small village. It would be unusual for you to _not_ have seen her."

"So if I haven't seen her, that means she isn't here," the peasant said with tortuous logic. Alistair admired his resolve, but he could have told him not to bother. Ser Mark had hunted maleficarum out of half the villages in Ferelden.

The Templar Sergeant sighed. His hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. "I will not ask again. We have come for the witch Lady Bel. Where is she?"

The peasant shrugged. "Haven't seen her," he said.

"We know that she is here. Deliver her, or face the consequences."

"Tell us now," Ser Kyan said, "or we'll burn this miserable place to the ground."

Ser Mark motioned her back. "Hold," he said quietly, and turned back to the peasant. "Interfering with a Templar's duty is a crime against the Maker."

"I don't see the Maker here!" The peasant waved his arm contemptuously around the muddy square. "Do you? The Maker has left us. Two harvests failed in a row, and but for the grace of-"He paused and hacked up a blob of grimy phlegm.

"If the Maker has left you, it is because you shelter apostates from the justice of the Chantry. Andraste's blessing will fall upon you once you have delivered your mage to us."

"Will it?" asked the commoner. He glared at the Templars like a terrier facing down a pack of wardogs. "You don't scare me. Barging in here with your shiny armor and your swords-you bring us nothing but trouble." His gaze raked over every one of them in turn. Alistair shifted uneasily. He had never been out on an official Templar mission, but he had expected more respect. From the narrowing of Ser Mark's eyes, he'd expected it too.

"We bring you deliverance." Ser Mark said eventually.

"From what? You will make no friends here if you take our mage from us. The only person I need deliverance from is you and your sermons."

"Apostate sympathizers," muttered Ser Percival.

The old man bristled. "Not one of you has any sympathy in your body," he hissed.

Ser Mark drew his sword a bare inch. The metal gleamed. It was the only clean thing in the grubby square. "Step aside, old man."

The peasant regarded the weapon cynically. "Now we see the true colors of the Chantry's dogs," he said. He did not move. Alistair could have laughed. He wanted to shout at the old man; to scream at him to get out of the way, that Ser Mark wasn't joking, but Templar training held him rigid. The old man seemed a fragile barrier against Ser Mark's Templar steel. Alistair wasn't sure whether Ser Mark really would cut him down or not. The peasant was guilty of nothing more than being a stubborn old cuss

_And if that was a crime, half the sisters in the Chantry would be strung up from the rafters_, he thought.

Ser Kyan leaned forwards. "Stop your tongue, old man, or I will cut it out," she threatened.

The peasant raised his chin. "You are not in the Chantry now," he said, "You can tell me what to do, but it is my own decision whether I will do it, or not. Kill me if you must, but that will not change my mind."

Ser Kyan drew her sword. "Let us see whether your will can be weakened by a taste of Templar steel," she hissed.

Alistair gulped. Defiance was one thing. He had been punished for it often enough. Killing an old man in cold blood was a whole new level of disobedience. He glanced at Ser Palamon. The other initiate stared straight ahead with his teeth gritted. A bead of sweat trickled down his jaw. Alistair doubted that Ser Palamon had joined the Templars to butcher old people. He also knew that Ser Kyan could carve the old man into chops before Ser Palamon would speak out.

That left him.

Alistair opened his mouth. "Are you _cr-_"

Ser Mark and Ser Kyan swung around to glare at him. Alistair couldn't see Ser Kyan's expression, but Ser Mark definitely looked disapproving. He was never sure what would have happened to him if they had not been interrupted, but right at that very moment a door opened in one of the houses across the square. A tiny old woman wearing a blue dress darted out the door and clutched the peasant's arm. "Tobias, no!"

Ser Mark's attention blessedly switched from Alistair to the new arrival. "And who, I might ask, are you?"

The woman drew herself up to her full height. If she had stood upon her tiptoes, she might just have reached Ser Mark's armpit. "I am the very one you are searching for, good knights. I am Lady Belda Guidry."

Ser Kyan smiled. "How kind of you to introduce yourself so promptly," she said.

The old woman's lip trembled as she regarded the sword, but she stood her ground. "Whatever are you doing here with old Tobias? I thought the Templars fought to uphold the Maker's will? I did not think they threatened harmless old women or men."

Ser Mark put his mailed hand on Ser Kyan's gauntlet. "Maleficar are hardly harmless," he said as he forced her blade down.

Lady Belda planted her hands firmly on her hips. "I may be the one you are seeking, but I am certainly _no_t a maleficar."

"Maleficar, apostate-we argue over semantics. Regardless, my lady, our orders are the same-to take you into custody."

_Yes_, Alistair thought. _Kill 'em all and let the Maker sort them out. That's the Templar way_.

The old woman's face paled, but she set her jaw. "And if I refuse to come?"

"Then we will burn this village to the ground." Ser Kyan said as she sheathed her blade.

"I beg of you! Do not talk of such things!" Lady Belda exclaimed. She looked Ser Kyan up and down and seemed unimpressed with what she saw. "You are a woman like me-"

Ser Kyan's lip curled. "I am a Templar," she warned, gazing disapprovingly at the small wilder woman. "Do not think to appeal to my feminine side. In truth, I have none. You would be better off begging to the trees."

Lady Belda's shoulders slumped. Her hands twisted in the worn fabric of her skirt. "This is not the place to speak of such things," she said. "We can debate in comfort in my home. It is small, and humble, but you are welcome to take a drink. It is a long way to the Tower, is it not?"

"We'll touch none of your potions," hissed Ser Kyan.

Ser Mark glared at her. "Hush, my sister," he said, giving the courteous words the tone of an edged dagger. He stooped slightly, so that he could meet Belda's eyes. "We would be honored to rest awhile. However, forgive me if we do not drink. We must soon be off."

The old woman's bird-bright eyes danced from one Templar to another. "I understand. Shall we?"

The elderly peasant tugged at Belda's arm, "My lady-"

"Hush, Tobias." Belda turned to the old man like a queen in muddy clogs. "It will be all right."

Alistair guessed her about the age of Sister Theohild of the Denerim Chantry. Her forehead was deeply furrowed. The hair that wisped over it had once been brown, but it was graying rapidly.

_No wonder she is stately. Her knees are probably giving out_, he thought.

Tobias frowned. "I doubt that very much," he said.

"Then it is the Maker's will," Belda said placidly. She turned back to the Templars. "This way."

The old man coughed. "We'll help you, my lady," he mumbled. "Just say the words and we'll set the dogs on them."

"You will do no such thing," Ser Mark said sharply. "Else it will go badly for you."

"And it will take more than dogs," Ser Kyan muttered.

The old woman put a hand on the old peasant's arm. "No, Tobias. Please." Her accent held the edge of slightly faded grandeur."I can handle this."

"If you're sure," the peasant said slowly. He looked doubtful.

_In his position_, Alistair thought, _I would be listening less to the tiny old woman and more to the heavily armed men._

Ser Mark's brow furrowed, a sign that his patience, never very elastic, had finally run out. "About that drink," he said pointedly.

Belda nodded, "This way," she said, pointing the way across the village square. The peasant leaned on the railing and watched them go before slipping away to feed pigs or thatch roofs or whatever peasants did with their free time.

Ser Mark watched the old man limp off. "He will not do anything foolish, will he?" he asked Belda.

"Why are you worried?" she said. "Are you afraid?"

Ser Mark smiled. "Of course not. Peasant folk with pitchforks are no threat at all to us. But I would prefer to avoid useless violence. Peasants are not our enemy."

The Lady Belda's mouth curled in the ghost of a smile. "No. It seems that _I _am your enemy instead. But do not worry. Tobias will not do anything foolish, as you put it. All talk, that one." She pivoted and threw the door open. "And neither will I."

Ser Mark peered over the threshold suspiciously before stepping inside. "Ser Kyan, Ser Percival, stay outside," he said. "Ser Aleyne, Ser Alistair, come in. I want you to see how we do things here."

Alistair was surprised to have been chosen, but he followed Ser Palamon as he ducked underneath the threshold. He heard a clank of mail behind him as the two remaining Templars took up positions on either side of the doorway before the door closed behind him with a thud, cutting out most of the light and all of the fresh air. The cottage interior was dark and smoky. Alistair blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. The second thing was the space, because there wasn't any. Ser Mark's decision to have the pair of them accompany him hadn't had anything to do with Ser Kyan's ill temper or Ser Percival's sharp sword. They were simply the smallest. There was barely enough room for the four of them to rub elbows together as it was.

Ser Mark pulled out a stool from behind a stained and spattered table and sat down. The old woman had her back to him as she stirred something in a pot hanging over the stove, but Alistair saw her lips tighten. She gave the pot a stir with more-than usual force and lifted it from the hook. Alistair had been expecting some sort of dire potion, but the liquid slopped over the side of the pot as Belda dropped it on the table with a thump and Alistair saw that it was tea. He reached out to steady the handle and received a grateful look from the old woman in return.

Ser Mark coughed. "So you are the Lady Belda," he said as the old woman assembled a collection of crude earthenware mugs from a rack on one wall.

She nodded. "I am."

There was a long silence.

Belda poured a dollop of milk into one of the mugs and handed it to Ser Mark. Particles of curdled cream bobbed on the surface of the liquid, but Ser Mark drank from the mug without even a grimace. "Thank you," he said.

Alistair drank cautiously from his own mug. It was good tea, despite his suspicions; sweet, hot and strong. He looked around the cottage, searching for rune stones, but saw none. The cottage only had one room. It would be hard to hide anything there from view. A ladder propped against the wall led upwards towards a sleeping loft. The floor was hard-packed earth. The table and a long wooden counter were the only pieces of furniture in the room. A row of shelves held a variety of small leather bags. Oiled -hide windows set in three walls let in a few weak beams of light. Dust motes sparkled in the air.

Belda sat down opposite Ser Mark. She crossed her ankles neatly, and her wooden clogs clacked against each other. Her feet were bare beneath the clogs, and the hem of her faded dress was ragged. She looked exactly what you would have expected to find in such a dilapidated building: shabby, small and slightly crazy. Despite her cultured accent, she looked poor.

_Why wouldn't she want to join the Circle? This place is poorer than the worst slum in Redcliffe_, Alistair thought, and felt instantly guilty. Whatever Belda might be, this was her home, and he was a guest.

The old woman saw his surreptitious glances, and smiled. "Are you curious, my son?" she asked, and waved a gnarled and suntanned arm at the collection of leather bags. "'Tis only the tools of my trade."

"Alistair!" Ser Mark snapped; as if the mere sight of a maleficar's paraphernalia would somehow corrupt him. He turned back to Belda. "And what _is _that trade, exactly?"

"I am a healer," she said.

"A herbalist?" Ser Mark parried.

Belda cupped a mug of tea between her hands. Perched on the stool with her face obscured by the wild tangle of her graying hair, she looked like an impish child."That and more."

"We have heard you are a mage," Ser Mark said.

"It is not true. I am no mage." Belda said. She waved a hand around the shabby cottage. "Would I stay here if I was? I'd be eating cake in the Circle with the nobles and the elves."

"The rumors cannot be denied," Ser Mark said. "You must come with us." His voice was polite enough, but it was an order despite all that.

Lady Belda frowned. "I am sorry," she said as if it were a simple thing. "I cannot."

"I am afraid you will have to," Ser Mark said. He half-rose from the table, looming large over the frail woman. His square jaw and shining armor seemed out of place in the tiny room. His shadow on the wall looked huge.

Belda looked up at him with her jaw set. "And I tell you I _cannot_, young man."

Alistair heard a stifled snicker from Ser Palamon. He did not dare look around. Ser Mark would have had his head if he dared to laugh. _Young man_?

"Why not?" Ser Mark demanded.

Belda tossed back the dregs of her tea and slid her cup away. She got up and began to tidy away the mugs, tucking her hair back over her ears as she did so. She did not look at Ser Mark. It was as if she could not stand to look at him. "My daughter Anna will give birth very soon and she has asked me to assist. It is her first, and I fear it will be problematic. Anna needs me. She is my only child. So you see, I cannot come."

Ser Mark's frown cleared. He sat back down in a clamor of mail. "There is no problem," he said. Alistair thought he heard an edge of relief in his voice. "Don't worry. Your daughter will be cared for by the healers of the Chantry."

"We have no money," she replied.

"Then we shall care for her for free," Ser Mark said triumphantly. "We will borrow a wagon from one of the peasants. I am sure any one of them will transport your daughter to the Chantry in Denerim for a small amount of coin." He waved one hand as if such matters were beneath him. "You will come to the Tower."

"She will die without me by her side." Belda said with certainty. She dumped the dirty crockery in a pail and turned back to the table. "I have the healing magic."

Ser Palamon gasped.

_Maker's breath_, Alistair thought. He had never imagined that a confession would be extracted so casually. He wondered if the woman was too ignorant to realize what she had to lose by admitting to her powers. _Probably not_, he decided. I _don't think anyone's that stupid_.

"A confession!" Ser Mark said triumphantly. He pointed a mailed finger at Belda. "Out of your own mouth, in front of witnesses. You have the healing magic; you have told us so yourself. Justice must be served. You will come with us to the Tower, where you shall be judged." He lowered his hand. "I will deliver you there myself."

The old woman's frown was etched into her face. "You cannot-"

"You must-" Ser Mark interrupted.

"You must not presume to tell me what I must and mustn't do in my own home!" she snapped.

"I can and I will," said Ser Mark. He stood up again, a giant in full armor, massive and threatening against the frail old woman whom he faced. "Sit down. You must come with us. Your daughter and her brat will be well looked after."

The old woman looked at her shelves as if they might help her and sat heavily back down onto her stool. Her face was white and her lips pinched tightly together.

"I insist, my lady," Ser Mark said gently, although his right hand lingered for a minute on the hilt of his sword.

The woman saw the gesture. She nodded. "Do I have a choice?" she asked hopelessly.

"No. You know the law. You may come with us, or you may die."

"The villagers," Belda said quickly. "They will fight to protect me. They will fight to keep me here. I have helped them-"

"The peasants?"Ser Mark asked. His lip curled.

"Who else?"

Ser Mark frowned. "If they will fight, then you must stop them." He touched his sword again. "Else they will die. And so will you."

"I will die in your tower," she retorted.

"You will not die if you do as we say," Ser Mark said. "Gather your things."

Alistair stood in the corner and watched them argue, frozen like a fox in lantern-light. He had the uncomfortable sense that he was on the wrong side, and he hadn't even had a chance to pick.

On the face of it, he couldn't disagree with anything that Ser Mark said. The woman was a hedge witch even if she wasn't a maleficar, and it was their duty as Templars to deliver her to the Tower for questioning. However, they were intruders in her house, and she was old, or at least she _looked_ old, and if she really _was_ a healer rather than, say, a blood mage, he could see nothing wrong in allowing her to stay in her village. It wasn't as if she'd cause any trouble, way up here in the wilds.

"Ser-" he started to say, and stopped when he saw the look on Ser Mark's face.

The old woman Belda looked from one helmed face to another and scowled. "You have no souls," she spat.

The Templar Sergeant's attention turned from Alistair to the old woman. "You should be concerned with your own soul," he said reprovingly. "Pray to the Maker for your daughter's guidance. Maybe Andraste will send a healing miracle."

"Prayers will do no good! She needs medicine!"

"And she shall get it. She shall travel to the Chantry." Ser Mark looked around the dingy room. "It will be better for her than this ..._place_."

"She will not survive the journey!"

"Then I shall send to the Chantry for a healer!" Ser Mark's voice rose.

"They will not come in time!"

"Do not contradict me, woman," Ser Mark thundered. "She will survive or she will not and if she does not she will be called to the Maker's side."

"We are not Andrastians!"

"Then she shall wander in the Fade for all eternity if that is her fate! Now come with us!"

The Lady Belda gripped the edges of the table. Her knuckles were white. Again, her gaze went to the bags of herbs on the wall and again she looked away. "And if I refuse?"

Ser Mark looked down his nose at the old woman. "We have been over this."

"Tell me again," she said quietly.

"We will take you there by force," Ser Mark said. It was an absurd remark. Alistair thought he could probably pick up the old lady himself and carry her out of the door with no worse injuries than a couple of bruised shins if she resisted, but the Templar Sergeant looked deadly serious. "Now get up."

Belda stood up. Her lips pressed tightly together and a spot of bright color burned high on each cheek. "Just let me collect my things."

Sere Mark shook his head. "There is no need. We have everything you shall require."

The old woman looked again at the bags of herbs and ointments that littered the counter. "Can I-"

"No." When she hesitated again Ser Mark said more gently, "It's best you leave them here." He put his hand on her skinny arm and tugged the old woman to her feet. "Outside."

Outside, Ser Kyan and Ser Percival were waiting. They stood one each at each of Lady Belda's shoulders, forming a tight guard around her. Ser Kyan bound the old woman's wrists tightly together with a piece of rope. The words of a spell lingered on Ser Percival's lips.

Belda looked up at each helmed face in turn. "Such an escort," she said.

The villagers had watched them leave, gripping pitchforks or hoes in uncertain hands, but they made no move to turn on the Templars. Ser Mark regarded them all contemptuously. "Tell your peasants not to bother us," he said. "They would not, in any case."

"They will not, if I command them so," Belda said. She raised her voice. "Tobias?"

The peasant squelched uncertainly across the muddy square. His hands hung loosely at his side and he watched the soldiers warily, like a dog who thought himself about to be whipped. "Bel?" He squinted at the impassive face of Ser Kyan. "Just give the word, milady. We's be ready for them."

Ser Kyan snorted.

The Lady Belda shook her head. "I forbid you from raising a hand against these good knights," she said, loudly enough for the whole village to hear.

Tobias scoffed. "Good knights? Don't see a good one among them. "He lowered his voice further."What about your daughter Anna, my lady?

"These ...people are just doing their job," Belda said in a voice loaded with bitterness. "As for Anna, it is best that she does not see me like this. I have no wish to cause her needless distress." She looked up at Ser Mark. "That is, or course, unless you will let me go in to her cottage and say a few words alone?"

Ser Mark shook his head. "You know that is not possible."

Belda glared at him and turned back to Tobias. "You have heard the Sergeant. So it must be. I am too dangerous to be trusted-"

"Dangerous!" The old peasant looked thunderstruck. "I've never known a less dangerous person in my life, milady, and I'll fight these Templars m'self, armed only with m' bare hands, if they say any different." He glared poisonously at Alistair and Palamon. "Mark my words."

"Give her my love," Belda said. "When I am gone, go to my cottage. You will find herbs on the shelves that may aid in Anna's labor. Maybe one of you will be able to help with her birthing. There is elfroot in my pouches, for the pain. Send her my love, and tell her I will see her soon, one way or another."

The old man looked uncertain. "Lady-"' he said.

Belda put a dirty hand on his arm. "Hush, Tobias. You have served me well. Do this last thing for me, and I will consider myself fortunate."

"You'll be all right?"

Belda looked doubtful. "I will survive," she said firmly.

"You better do." Tobias said. He glared at Ser Mark. His expression would have been threatening if he had been half a foot taller and half a century younger. "She better do."

Ser Mark stretched lazily. Muscles cracked as he rolled his shoulders back. Each of his fists was the side of the old man's head. "She's an illegal mage. Think yourselves lucky. I could have cut her down and had you all hanged."

Tobias regarded him with the cynicism of seventy years of hard work and poor harvests. "Fortunate," he said. "Right. I'll go and tell that to this lady's lass, shall I, when she dies birthing the child her mother could've helped to save?" He spat. "While you lot are sat around your fires growing fat on beef and beer?"

Ser Kyan could take no more. She drew her sword with a hiss of steel and advanced upon the old peasant. "Beef and beer, is it? I'll have you know that we fight hard to save your worthless souls!"

Tobias did not move an inch, but his hands shook. "So you'd save my soul by delivering me to the Maker that much sooner would you? I curse you, and all you stand for!"

There was a rumble of assent from the assembled peasantry.

"Peace!" Belda shouted. There was a note of authority in her voice that made even Ser Kyan hesitate.

"I have no wish to cause a fight. We will leave now. My daughter will stay here in your care. I have no wish to see you all killed for my sake."

A few of the peasants at the back of the crowd shuffled off, as if they had no wish to die for hers.

Belda turned to Ser Mark. "Let us go," she said simply.

Ser Kyan growled and sheathed her sword. She shouldered past the old man Tobias with a shove that left him sprawling in the dirt. Alistair reached out a hand to help him up, but Ser Palamon shoved him from behind. "Are you _mad?_' he whispered.

Alistair stumbled past the old man, and they left the village with the witch in their midst and catcalls and thrown clods of mud behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

The Shadow of the Flame

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Three.

_The General Reluctance of Ser Alistair - Bandits! - Camp for the Night - Blood Magic_

"Let me go back," Ser Kyan said as soon as they had rounded the corner."Those peasants treated us with disrespect. Let me teach them a lesson."

"No." Ser Mark said simply. "They are not worth our time. Our job is to hunt maleficar, not to punish peasants. We have found our maleficar." He gestured at Belda. "Now let us hurry to the Tower and deliver her to justice."

"So they'll go unpunished?" Ser Kyan said, unimpressed.

Ser Mark shook his head. "When we return to Denerim I shall point the tax collectors in their direction. They'll pay dearly for their rudeness, but not with blood. For did not Andraste say' _Those who steal from their brothers and sisters, do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind_'? And they have stolen time from us by obstructing us in our duties."

"They have stolen nothing from you that you could not afford to lose," Belda said from the centre of a wall of Templar steel.

Ser Mark sniffed. "Obstructing Andraste's chosen in their work is a crime, and it is right that they should suffer for it."

Belda did not look impressed. She lifted her skirts and picked her way across the muddy path. "You are so arrogant," she said, "Pride and heartlessness are also sins." She looked over her shoulder at Alistair and Palamon. "You young ones, get out before you too lose your hearts."

"Lose their brains, more like." Ser Mark retorted. "What little they have to spare." He turned to the pair of initiates. "You have been taught a valuable lesson today. We do not always have to go in swords waving. A more subtle approach works equally as well."

_That's subtle?_ Alistair thought. He cleared his throat. "Would you have really done it?"

"Done what? In the Maker's name, Alistair, you grow more obtuse by the hour."

Alistair ignored Palamon's not-so-subtle cough. "Would you have killed all those people?"

Ser Mark nodded. "Certainly. If it meant the difference between capturing and losing a maleficar, I'd have put them all to the sword without hesitation."

This was not a lesson the Chantry had taught Alistair. "All of them?" he asked disbelievingly.

Ser Mark nodded. "Down to the last child, if need be. Aye, and their dogs and livestock too." He fixed Alistair with a baleful gaze. "And so will you."

"Me?"

"It will be your duty as a Templar.

"But I don't want to _be_-"

Ser Palamon cannoned into Alistair's back, causing him to stumble and bite his tongue. Alistair righted himself, looked up at Ser Mark's face and decided that biting off his tongue altogether would have been a merciful punishment compared to what Ser Mark would have done to him if he had finished the sentence.

The Templar Sergeant glared at him. "Please continue, initiate."

Alistair swallowed. "I was saying,' he said carefully though the pain in his mouth, "that I didn't want to, er, let anybody down."

Ser Mark nodded."'Good," he said dangerously."Ser Palamon, please watch your step. Alistair may be worthless, but the armor he is wearing is most certainly not, and I would hate to have it damaged."

Ser Palamon drew himself up. "Certainly, sergeant,' he said, his face beet red, "It won't happen again."

"It better not." Ser Mark said. 'Look to your feet. We have a long way to go this evening in haste, and if you were to trip and break your leg it would be my most regretful duty to leave you behind for the wolves."

"Wolves," Alistair said. "Right. Only-"

Ser Mark sighed. "Enlighten us, initiate."

"Only- I don't think there are any wolves in this part of the Bannorn. I think they all got eaten by the monsters."

"The point is not what sort of monsters you will be consumed by, the point is that you will be _eaten,_" Ser Mark said dangerously. "And if you say another word, Alistair, I shall personally hamstring you and leave you for to find out about them at first hand."

Alistair stopped himself midway into opening his mouth to say _Yes, Sergeant_. Instead, he just nodded.

They walked on in silence.

After a while, it began to rain again. The landscape flattened out and changed from blasted heath into forlorn looking birch forest. Ser Mark's head swiveled from side to side like a hound hunting for a scent. "We shall be at the lake by sundown," he said."We shall camp there."

Alistair sighed at the idea of camping for the night, and Belda sidled up beside him. He jumped as her knobby elbow met his side.

"Don't be afraid," she said as soon as she saw that he was looking.

Alistair shook his head. "I wasn't."

"Only because he hasn't the sense," Ser Palamon's voice said from behind them both.

Belda ignored him. She glanced up at Alistair's face. "You know, young man, you remind me of somebody. It's a shame, but I just can't put my finger on it."

"I get that a lot," Alistair said morosely. He thanked the Maker that the old wilder woman was even less likely than Palamon was to be familiar with the face of Ferelden's king.

Palamon chortled. "Village idiot, most like."

Belda scowled over her shoulder at Palamon. "Hush, Don't be unkind. You are both kind, which is more than your comrades are."

"The Maker does not need compassion," Palamon said uncertainly."He needs sharp swords and a loyal heart."

Belda laughed. "Did they teach you that in your Chantry, boy? You use the Maker's name so freely. How do you know what he wants and does not?"

"It is written," Palamon said even more uncertainly.

"Ah," the old woman said. She shrugged. "Of course."

She said nothing more until Ser Mark and Ser Kyan came up to take their turn at guard and then only a comment about the weather. Alistair and Palamon took up the rearguard.

"How long d' you think it'll take us to get to the Tower in Calenhad?" Alistair whispered after a while once Ser Mark was out of earshot.

Palamon swung his sword at some reeds, which parted and fell to earth with a rustle. "I don't know. I can't wait! They say it's as tall as Fort Drakon in Denerim. Taller, even. They say that the Avvars built it. In fact, so many Avvars fought and died there in the siege against Tevinter they say it's cursed."

"So we're heading to a cursed tower," Alistair said glumly. "Great."

Palamon shook his head. "Oh, that was years ago," he said. "The Circle has been there for centuries, and the Templars with them. Don't you read your history?"

"So if we're really unlucky we'll be hauled out to Lake Calenhad and stationed on a tower in the middle of nowhere?"

"There is no higher honor!" Palamon said indignantly.

"Right. Then you can go and I'll stay in Denerim. At least you can talk to people who aren't Templars in the towns."

"It might not be too bad," Palamon said defensively, "At least there wouldn't be all this walking." He brushed a spot of mud from his armor, which smeared and made the armor looked twice as bad as it had in the first place.

Alistair glanced at Belda's diminutive but erect form. "What do you suppose the Circle of the Magi will do to her once we reach Calenhad?"

Palamon shrugged. His armor clanked. "Well, you know, at least we're taking her to the Circle. If Ser Mark was certain she'd been a maleficar, he'd have killed her without delay. But she hasn't tried anything, so she probably isn't."

"So all this," Alistair gestured at the assembled Templars, 'is all just a massive waste of time? She's not even a mage?"

"She _said_ she was a mage." Ser Palamon scratched his head. "And there've been rumors coming out of this part of the Bannorn for years. No spark without fire, or so the Chantry says. But she might just be a herb wife with a few sparks up her sleeve. I guess there are useless mages too," He sneaked a sly look at Alistair. "Just like there are useless Templars."

"Don't remind me," said Alistair. "But I guess useless Templars don't end up on a tower in the middle of Lake Calenhad for the rest of their lives."

It was unfortunate for him that Ser Kyan overheard him. "You will be going nowhere if you do not learn to mind your tongue," she said sharply.

"I was taught that you learned by asking questions." Alistair rubbed at his ears.

"You learn by obeying the commands of your elders and betters. And if I had been your teacher instead of Ser Mark then you would at least know when to shut up."

"If I had been your teacher, young lady, you would know how to talk to old women properly," Belda called from the centre of their tight-knit huddle.

Ser Kyan snarled. "I may not know how to talk to old women," she said, "but I do know how to talk to apostates." Her hand touched her sword-hilt again, and this time she did not move it away.

Palamon gulped.

Alistair looked at Ser Kyan's sword, and back up at Lady Belda. Ser Percival had bound the old woman's hands, but she seemed to have regained at least some of her cheery demeanor since leaving the village. Her tongue was as sharp as ever. She did not seem the least bit intimidated by Ser Kyan's weapons and height. It was the first sign Alistair had seen that the old woman might be more than she seemed at first glance.

Ser Kyan glared at the hedge witch like a hunting falcon. Alistair hoped that the Templar did not decide to lay into the frail old woman. It was traditional among certain circles for the Templars to give captured mages a good kicking once they found them-if they did not kill them on sight, that was. Most Templars risked life and soul to protect the village folk from abominations and maleficar that could flay them with a word. When the maleficar in question was insufficiently threatening to be slaughtered, or sufficiently mouthy to be annoying, beating them up was an acceptable way to let off steam.

All of the sorcerers that Alistair had seen in his short and undistinguished career as an initiate (grand total, two) had been young men.

Ser Kyan growled and carried on walking, Alistair relaxed. Belda looked over her shoulder and winked at him.

They walked on.

It was nearly nightfall before they came to the river. Alistair saw the water as a glimpse of dirty silver between a low tangle of thorn trees. Ser Mark held up a hand. "Halt!"

"Can I not rest my feet?" the old woman moaned. She had been struggling for the last hour. Alistair couldn't blame her. His feet weren't feeling too good either and he wasn't an ancient old lady.

Ser Mark shook his head. "Wait a moment. Palamon?"

Alistair's fellow recruit drew himself up in a tangle of amour. "Ser?"

Ser Mark pointed at the dense scrubby riverbank. "What do you see?"

Palamon looked at Ser Mark questioningly, as if it were a joke. When the Sergeant offered no more information, he squelched forwards in the mid and shaded his eyes with his hand. "A flat and treeless place, ser. In the centre, a watercourse with deep banks."

"And?" Ser Mark prompted."

"Banks deeply overgrown with," Palamon squinted, "brambles. And other thorny plants."

"Gorse, thistles, horsetail and wild roses," Belda prompted.

Ser Mark ignored her. "Which, Alistair, ignoring the lack of greenery and tree cover on the plain itself, makes it a perfect site for a...?"

"Ambush?" Alistair guessed.

Ser Mark applauded with a clash of steel gauntlets. "Correct!" he said cheerily. An arrow arced through the air and bounced off his breastplate with a pinging sound.

Ser Kyan took a step to her left and drew her sword with a hiss. "Bandits!" she exclaimed. "They must be desperate. Or stupid."

"Or perhaps they could not see us in the dark," Ser Percival said as he also drew his weapon.

"Perhaps they have been smoking herbs," Belda said. She dragged her skirts around her and sat down on the ground, shuffling along until she found a convenient stone to protect her bottom from the mud. Her bound hands bobbed awkwardly between her knees. She didn't seem too concerned with the attack, or by her lack of armor. "Such dreadful hobbies are common round these parts." She looked up at Ser Mark with bird-bright eyes. "I'll stay here, shall I?"

"Percival, guard her," Ser Mark said. He held his sword high. "In the Maker's name!"

Alistair gritted his teeth and drew his weapon, praying that the blade did not stick. The Maker must have been listening to him for once in his life. His blade hissed smoothly from its scabbard just in time. The first bandit flailed at Alistair wildly, and Alistair's training took over. He poked at the left hand side of the bandit's chest with the tip of his blade-it was just a poke, really, he didn't have to use much force, and was surprised how easily the blade slid in. The bandit's momentum carried him the rest of the way onto the blade and he sagged, dropping his weapon. Alistair flicked the body from his blade-which was much more difficult than killing the man in the first place- and stepped forwards to meet the next bandit. He had dropped his shield in the first rush, so he stooped down and snatched up the dead man's sword. It was a heavy, ancient thing, but the hilt felt comfortable in his hands.

The second bandit was a little wiser than the first. He saw Alistair and stepped back, away from the tangled knot of fighting men and women. Alistair tried a dual-handed sweep that should have scythed through the man's neck. The bandit parried the blow. Alistair feinted. Ser Palamon stepped up behind the bandit, grabbed him by his shoulders and toppled him backwards over his leg. Alistair followed through with his blow and the second bandit died as quickly as the first.

They looked around for other opponents. There were none left.

Palamon bent down and wiped his blade on the dead bandit's leather jerkin. Alistair wiped his twin blades on his surcoat.

Ser Mark gave him a disapproving look. "What is that in your hand, Alistair?"

Alistair looked down. Ser Mark seemed to be searching for the obvious answer, so he gave it to him. "It's a sword, ser."

The Sergeant sighed. "I know that, boy. The question is; what is it doing in your hand? We do not fight with two swords, Alistair. We are not _rogues_."

Alistair dropped the sword next to its former master. He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. "Ser."

Ser Mark smiled. Well done, boys."

Alistair shook his head. He was sure that he was hearing things. "Ser?"

"I said well done. It is not easy to kill your first foe."

Palamon looked stunned. "But it-it was easy, Ser. It was easier than killing sheep."

The knight nodded. "Sheep are more sensible than men," he said. "They know when to run. These men outnumbered us, true, but they were poorly armed." He bent down and picked up the hilt of one of the bandits' sword, which had snapped off a few centimeters into the blade. "Observe. This is why I teach you to take good care of your weapons. If your blade snapped in battle, how much use do you think it would be? None, that is what. Observe the site. This is a perfect place for an ambush. Steep gorges, brush cover..." He shook his head. "If we had been helpless travelers, it might well have worked."

"But we're not," Alistair said, "So why did they attack us?"

Ser Mark looked superciliously at the corpses. "Desperation, maybe. Maybe Percival is right and they simply did not see our armor in the dark." His eyes narrowed. "Or maybe they were working with the maleficar. The villagers would have had plenty of time to alert nearby bandits. If the men made their way here on horseback they would have outpaced us. It is a good question." His head swiveled to Belda where she perched on the log. "One I intend to answer. Search the corpses. Bring me anything of import you may find." He turned abruptly away.

Alistair knelt down next to the body. Next to him, Palamon rifled the pockets of the man he had just killed. Searching the body didn't take long, mainly because there was nothing to find. The bandits were dressed in coarse wool and rough leather; their jerkins dyed in the muted hues of the barren countryside they inhabited. They carried nothing except for cheap weapons and scraps of food. Despite Ser Mark's prediction, there was no sign of horses.

Alistair finished searching his man and moved onto the next. The bandits were thin; their dirty flesh was clammy and already cold beneath his hands. He sat back. "This is a waste of time."

Palamon raised his head. "Maybe," he said, rifling a bandit's body as he talked," but the sergeant's asked us to do it, so don't ask so many questions." He shook his head. "It'll only get you into trouble."

Alistair ignored Palamon's advice. "They weren't stupid. Why'd they do it? Even bandits can count."

"Who knows? They were poor. We were there; they were desperate. What's to talk about?"

Alistair jerked his head towards the unlikely pair of Belda and Ser Mark, now engaged in a heated argument while Ser Kyan stood by and watched disapprovingly. "Do you really think she had anything to do with it? She's a little old woman."

"She's a maleficar." Ser Palamon stood up and wiped his muddy hands on his slightly less muddy breeches.

"We only have Ser Mark's word for it."

"We only have her word that she's not," Palamon retorted. "And she already told us she's a mage, you heard her yourself."

"A healer," Alistair corrected. "Even if she was a real mage, I'd be expecting demons, not bandits." He finished searching the last body and stood up. "They're just men."

"I agree," Ser Percival said. "Find anything?"

Alistair looked around in surprise as the Templar scrambled out of the bushes in the gorge. He was surprised by the knight's appearance, and even more surprised that Percival agreed with him. He shook his head. "No."

The Templar did not look surprised. "Didn't expect you would. Ser Mark is always suspicious, but he's a sergeant. That's his job." He rolled a corpse out of the way with the toe of his steel sabaton. "There's no sign of horses, and they would have needed them to outpace us from the village. We've been doing good time, even with the witch. Sometimes the simplest explanation is also the right one. These are peasants we're dealing with, after all. Not Orlesian nobles."

"What were you doing out there?"

"Looking for horses," The Templar shook his head. "A fool's errand, that one. I doubt these bandits even have the wit required to ride a horse. And speaking of riding, we must get on. The lake is a way yet, and it grows dark."

Alistair looked up at the gathering clouds. "It's going to rain."

"This is the Bannorn," Ser Percival said mildly. "It rarely does anything else."

The first raindrops had already begun to fall as they left the bodies behind. By the side of the trail, Ser Mark was arguing with the witch. Alistair caught the tail-end of their argument as they hurried up.

"Why would they risk their life for me?" Belda spread her hands. The hems of her skirts dragged in the dirt. Droplets of moisture beaded her hair.

"You could have had them under a compulsion." Ser Mark said ominously. He turned to Alistair and Palamon. "Were there any signs of witchcraft on the bodies?"

Palamon shook his head.

"Just weapons," Alistair said quietly.

Belda looked past them all at the dead bandits. "If I could work such magic, rest assured that I would have tried it," she said. Her voice was sweet but there was a dark undercurrent below the words. "Besides, you have tied my hands, and my herbs are back at home. I must be a mighty mage indeed to work magic under such constraints." She tilted her head back and regarded Ser Mark scornfully. Do I look like such a mage to you, good ser?"

Ser Mark regarded Belda as if she was a piece of dirt he had wiped from his shoe. "You do not," he said through gritted teeth.

"Well," she said brightly. "Now we've got all that cleared up, don't you think we should be getting on?"

"We will move when I say the word," Ser Mark snapped.

"Very well, then." Belda smoothed her skirts and sat back down on the stone in the mud. "When you say the word, I am ready."

Ser Mark opened his mouth and closed it again. He scowled. "Did you search the corpses thoroughly?" he said through his teeth.

Alistair nodded. "Yes, ser," he said.

Ser Percival nodded. "I saw them myself," he said. "And I am quite sure that I saw no sign of mage craft on the bodies."

Ser Mark's brow furrowed even further. "These initiate should not need you to vouch for them, Ser Percival," he said.

Ser Percival's face was carefully blank. "Ser," he said.

Alistair slumped his shoulders and tried to look inconspicuous. Behind him, Palamon tried and failed to fade into the background. It did not pay to be in the firing line when Ser Mark was in a temper. Behind them all, Ser Kyan raised her chin and ignored them all.

Ser Mark held up his hand. "Move out!" he said. "Alistair, help the mage."

"About time," Belda snorted quietly under her breath, but she got up when Alistair held out his arm. He muttered an apology and checked her bonds. She smiled.

"Do not worry so, young man. I am still bound."

"Hurry up!" Ser Mark snarled over his shoulder.

"You better follow him," Alistair said, and they all set off in a damp and bedraggled procession.

It was nearly full dark before they found a place to camp that suited Ser Mark's requirements. It was a small copse on the shores of the lake, with clear ground all around and a plentiful supply of fresh flowing water.

Alistair pulled up a half-rotten log for Belda. "It's not much of a camp-"

She nodded, rubbing her knees. "It will do."

Ser Mark returned from scouting the perimeter. "Ser Kyan, Ser Palamon, you are on guard. Alistair, collect some wood. Sit down, old woman, before you fall."

Belda sank thankfully onto the log. "I need a rest," she said, reaching forwards to warm her hands at the small fire Ser Percival had lit with kindling from his pack. "My knees-"

"There will be time enough for you to rest in the Tower, old woman," Ser Mark said brusquely. "Alistair, the firewood will not collect itself. Why are you still here?"

Alistair went.

It took him a while to find dry wood. By the time he returned Ser Mark had already handed out bread and dried meat. More meat bubbled on a pot on the stove, mixed with water to make a savory stew. Alistair handed the wood over to a grateful Ser Percival and collected his share of the meal from Palamon while Ser Mark stalked off into the trees.

"Where's he going?"

"Gone to check the route for tomorrow's march," Ser Palamon said through a mouthful of bread.

"I thought _you _were on watch."Alistair elbowed him.

"Ser Kyan's taken over. I think she hates company." Palamon swallowed the bread and elbowed Alistair back. Beside him, Belda chewed her way through her portion of her meal. Somebody had cut the ropes around her wrists. She seemed far more impressed with the meal than either Palamon or Alistair. Occasionally she broke off from her chewing to rub the bruises the ropes had left around her wrists. Alistair leaned over. "Good food?"

She nodded. "We didn't have bread in the village. Too wet for wheat."

"Why didn't you trade?" Palamon asked her curiously.

Belda sighed. "To trade, you must have goods or money. We had little of either."

"The mages in the tower get bread every day," Percival interjected.

She looked at him jadedly. "Do you really think I can be so easily bought, young man? I didn't spend all of my life out here in the wilds, you know."

"I didn't think maleficar were allowed to talk so much," Ser Percival said. He looked around as Ser Mark crashed through the brush and entered the circle of firelight. "Path clear, is it?"

Ser Mark nodded. He accepted a chunk of bread and a piece of meat from Ser Percival and sat down by the fire without touching the food. "Are we not forgetting something?"

Alistair looked around. He couldn't see anything he had forgotten, but then he rarely did until somebody else pointed it out.

Ser Palamon hastily swallowed and lowered the remnants of his meal. "The Maker's grace," he said.

Ser Mark's lips twitched in something that might have been a smile. "Very good, Ser Palamon. Just because we are in the wilds ourselves does not mean that we must behave like wilders. Please do us the honor of leading us in the Chant of Light."

Palamon looked as he wished he had not spoken. "What, the whole thing?"

Ser Mark shook his head. "Don't be foolish," he said. "Verse twelve, if you may."

Alistair thanked the Maker he hadn't been chosen as Palamon began to speak and realized the irony of his plea a second later. He clasped his hands together, bent his head and chewed quickly, hoping that Ser Mark did not notice the crumbs. The verse seemed to take forever; although Palamon knew the scripture well enough that Alistair did not have to prompt him.

When the verse was over Ser Mark raised his head. "Well done Ser Palamon," he said, and frowned, his expression at odds with his words. "But while your scripture is bright, your armor is tarnished. Clean it, if you please. Alistair, too. You will find water and sand down by the lake shore. That should suffice."

Alistair looked unenthusiastically in the direction of the lake. The darkness of the night and the low-hanging trees of their camp obscured the shore from view, but he could hear the waves sucking at the shingle over the crackle of the fire. Cleaning armor was bad enough, but cleaning it on the shore of a lake in the dark seemed like a complete waste of time.

Palamon swallowed the rest of his meal hastily and got up. "Ser,"

Alistair gulped down his food and mimicked Palamon. They walked out of the firelight and down to the lakeshore, ducking past Ser Kyan as they went.

"This is pointless," Alistair said as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Maybe," Palamon said, "but we're not bandits. We're Templars. Representatives of the Chantry. We can't go traipsing around the countryside covered in mud like peasants."

"They we shouldn't wear shiny armor as our uniform." Alistair retorted.

"It won't take long."

Alistair unbuckled his greaves. "I hope you're right."

The job was exactly as tedious and slow as he had feared, despite Palamon's optimism. The fire glowed brightly among the trees behind them as the moon rose over the lake. Palamon scrubbed in silence. Alistair did the same. When he thought he had achieved as much as he possibly could he gave his armor a cursory wipe on the grass and buckled it on.

Palamon looked up. "Finished already?"

Alistair nodded. "I'm done. I'm going back."

"It's your funeral," Palamon shrugged. "I'm going to stay out here for a while. Make sure Ser Mark's got no reason to tell me off."

Alistair snorted. "I didn't know he needed a reason."

"He's probably listening right now," Palamon retorted.

Alistair shrugged and set of back to the camp. He didn't hurry. It was dark but silent and for once nobody was telling him what to do. Solitude was rare in the Chantry. He reached the campfire without bumping into Ser Mark and considered it a bonus. Ser Kyan was there, and Ser Percival. The Templar woman sat on the floor with her back next to a tree and his head sunk on his chest. Ser Percival knelt motionlessly next to the fire.

Alistair cleared his throat and dumped his helmet and breastplate down next to the fire. "I'm done."

Nobody replied.

"I'm done," Alistair repeated. He looked from Ser Percival's form to Ser Kyan, and realized that there was no sign of Belda, or Ser Mark. "Where's the witch?"

In the silence he heard only the crackling of the fire, the sigh of the waves on the shore and the suddenly rapid beating of his nervous heart.

"Ser Percival?"

Ser Percival did not speak. In the flickering light of the fire, Alistair saw the wet stickiness of blood in the ground. He crossed the small campsite in five paces and knelt down next to Ser Percival.

The Templar's eyes stared sightlessly at the night sky. Blood gleamed on his surcoat and dribbled from the deep slash in his throat. It hadn't even had time to dry. Alistair didn't bother checking for a pulse. There was no point.

He checked Ser Kyan next. The Templar woman had died in exactly the same way. Her sword lay in the leaf litter a hands' breadth from her. It was still in its scabbard. There was no sign of a struggle.

"Such a shame," a soft voice said.

Alistair looked up from the body and saw Belda standing among the trees. She held Ser Mark's sword awkwardly in both hands. Dark liquid dripped from the tip. Alistair took one look and decided that Ser Mark was probably dead.

"You killed them," he said, unsure if it was a question or an accusation.

She nodded. "Yes."

The next logical question was, of course, _why _and _how_, but Alistair was sure he had a good answer for them both. "They were Templars," he said and drew his sword

She frowned, as if he had asked a pointless question, but made no move to stop him. ""They were careless and they were ignorant. I caught them off guard. And now," she said, almost apologetically, "I must kill you, and your companion, and then I must go home."

Alistair gulped. He knew he should do something; he just couldn't work out what. "Don't?" he suggested. "Why now?" he said. "Why here?"

Belda lowered the sword. "Why not back in the village, where you found me? I am not cruel. People would have been hurt if I had summoned my powers there, and the villagers would have had to lie for about what they had seen. I would not ask that of them." She looked around. "There is no-one _here_ to see."

"There's _me_," Alistair said quietly.

She wiped her bloody hand on her skirt. "If all your Templars could not slay me, what chance do you have, Chantry boy?"

"I'm wondering that myself," Alistair said. He looked off into the trees for Ser Mark or Palamon, but they were nowhere to be seen.

The witch followed his gaze. "They are all dead,' she said, "or they will be soon."Her face turned grim."And it is your fault."

"My fault?" Alistair had been blamed for many things, but he could think of no way that this had anything to do with him personally. "Me? How?" He gazed around clearing in the bloody light of the fading flames. "You did this! Ser Mark was right! You are a maleficar!"

"I was not until very recently." She said. Her voice was tired.

"How so?"

Belda turned her wrist to display a shallow cut. "I told you that I was a healer in the village. There, I spoke the truth. I knew of the demons, of course, the spirits that trouble the Fade, and the magic they spoke of, but I always had the strength to deny them what they sought from me. I knew it would lead to no good, and I was right. After a while, they ceased to bother me. "She looked around at the slumped corpses."I would never have thought that I could be capable of so much violence. Maybe this is what magic does to you. It is curious, is it not, the lengths at which we all will go to survive?"

"You're a blood mage?"

She looked surprised. "Maybe I am," she said quietly. "But I was not, until you made me so. Any time I called, they told me, they would come." Her gaze returned to the cut on her wrist. "And all I had to do was offer my blood. Just a drop."

"What changed?"

Her voice turned bitter. "You have to ask? You came, of course! I did not run because I thought that you would listen. I was stupid. Not one of you has ever or will ever birth a child. You Templars have no families. How could I have expected you to understand? You would kill me and my daughter-"

"We would not. We seek only to deliver you to the Tower."

"Fool! What do you think happens to maleficar in this tower of yours?"

"They strip the magic from you, and set you free."

"Not exactly. Oh, it is true enough. But how much of me do you think will be left when they take my talents from me? Even your precious mages cannot remove my magic without removing who I am. I will become like the Tranquil. Besides, even if they could, how would I ever make a living?"

"Isn't there another way?" Alistair asked, and knew himself naïve. Surely nobody would commit such a crime unless they had no other choice?

"No. Think of it. I could not remove your ability to wield a sword without damaging your body. Why should magic be so different from any other gift? I am sorry for you and for your friend. Truly I am. You are too young for this. But my daughter is younger than both of you, and she will die if I do not go to her. I fight not for myself but for her."

She raised the sword and stepped forwards. Panting, she lowered the weapon again. "My. These things really are heavier than they look."

Alistair clutched at a thread of hope as he steadied his grip on his own blade. The Lady Belda was old and small and frail. These attributes had troubled Alistair on their journey; now they might swing affairs into his favor. The bandits had been men, and they'd been armed. They had not lasted long against the Templars.

He held his sword in front of him like a holy relic and advanced. The campfire flickered and smoked between them. Its light gleamed from mail laced with sticky blood. The sight gave Alistair pause. If the bandits had not lasted long, then neither had Ser Kyan or Ser Percival.

His stomach twisted. His hands sweated despite the cold, but the tip of the blade did not waver.

"What if we just leave you alone?" he asked desperately, praying to the Maker that Palamon would not appear. He looked around, trying to avoid appearing obvious. The dark night around him seemed suddenly sinister. The spindly trees loomed overhead. Far above him, an owl hooted.

The witch paused for a second. Then she shook her head regretfully. "No. You are still Templars, even if you are young. Any one of you would kill me. You shall die." She glanced back into the trees. "As shall your absent friend. Now then," She leaned the sword against her leg and held out her hand. "Now let us get on with it. Killing is an unpleasant job, but it is one best done quickly. See, I have learned. Now stand, so I can kill you."

Alistair frowned as the tip of Belda's bloody blade touched the ground. Why had she dropped the sword? He reached for his magic, but could not concentrate. Panic froze his mind.

Belda smiled, interpreting his look of puzzlement fluently. "Swords are not the only weapons."

_No_, Alistair thought, _but they work just fine_. He advanced, holding the sword in guard position rigidly.

He expected the old witch to summon demons or at least to raise the sword. Instead she gave an odd smile, half regretful and half eager, and flicked her fingers.

Alistair could not move.

He stood frozen in mid-stride with the sword unnaturally still in his hands. A fly bit his ear and he could not make even the small movement to brush it away. He tried to move, but couldn't; tried to open his mouth, and couldn't. He could no longer feel the hilt of the sword between his numb fingers.

_Blood magic_, he thought.

He heard a rustling in the bracken behind Belda and thought furiously, _Palamon_. He tried once again to shout a warning, but all that escaped from his lips was a small, hoarse whisper.

Palamon of course, took no notice of _that_. He walked into the clearing carrying his armor as if nothing at all was wrong. He set his breastplate down with a clatter and looked at Belda in surprise, "What're you doing?"

The witch did not bother with a reply.

Palamon swiveled his head towards Alistair. "What-?"

He did not speak another word. Belda made a gesture with her hand and Palamon froze with one hand upraised. He looked like a most unattractive statue of Andraste.

_In Maferath's name_, Alistair thought. His eyeballs were beginning to itch. His throat stung from the smoke that drifted from the smoldering fire. He had never before noticed the hundreds of tiny movements that kept his body functioning before. He could not blink. He could not swallow. He was glad that every _other_ function appeared to be frozen; otherwise he was pretty sure that he would have soiled his breeches by now. He tried to blink and of course couldn't. His eyes _burned_. It was beyond irritating and beginning to be painful, but from the look in Belda's eyes and the sword in her hand he thought that he'd have bigger problems in a few minutes.

Alistair exerted all of his muscles and managed to inch his foot a fraction of a pace forwards.

Belda's head snapped up. She frowned, as if the movement had irked her in some way, and gestured again.

Pain blossomed in Alistair's chest and curled like dark smoke through every muscle of his body. At first it ached. Then, as it pulsed with the beat of his heart and crept further through his veins with every breath, it hurt. Within seconds it had blossomed into hard cold agony.

_At least I'm still breathing_, Alistair thought, before the pain worsened and the fact that he was still breathing stopped being a consolation and became a hindrance. Alistair would have screamed, but he couldn't speak. He would have fallen, but the magic held him upright. He would have cut Belda's throat quite happily if it had not been for the magic that kept him frozen in place.

Alistair had heard of blood magic. All of the Templars talked of it. It was a tale, a fable for cold winter's nights. Like dragons, he had never thought he would see it in the flesh, and like dragons, it seemed to be only too alive and well. He had never thought anybody sane would practice it, much less on himself. A few of the more experienced men mentioned blood magic in hushed voices, with a caution that suggested to Alistair that it was on the list of last things to see before you die in much the same way as a detailed examination of the anatomy of a dragon's mouth was often the last thing you saw before a dragon ate you.

Alistair would have closed his eyes in despair, but they stayed open. The only part of his body that seemed to be capable of movement was his tear ducts, which were watering furiously. Tears streamed down his face. If he'd had enough wit to think, Alistair would have been embarrassed, but he didn't care.

Just when he thought his heart would explode with the sheer strain of the magic, he felt his limbs move. His fingers opened one by one, uncurling knuckle by knuckle until he dropped his sword. He heard it fall onto the soft leaf litter of the camp, but it was out of his line of vision, and he had no way of knowing where, exactly it had fallen. His chin rose inch by inch until he had to roll his eyeballs in their sockets simply to keep Palamon in view. His throat felt acutely vulnerable, which he guessed was kind of the point.

Alistair saw Belda lift the blade and step forwards through a veil of tears.

The witch hesitated before she had taken more than a single step. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but Alistair thought he saw something locked around her ankle. Alistair strained to see more. As Belda frowned, he saw that the thing gripping her leg was nothing more or less than a broad, bruised and bloodstained hand.

Alistair had seen the hand many times before, usually in close contact with his face.

It was Ser Mark's.


	4. Chapter 4

The Shadow of the Flame

A Dragon Age: Origins fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Four.

_Return to the Chantry - The Fate of Ser Mark - The Villagers' Lament - Alistair's Reward._

In that single frozen instant, several things happened very fast. Belda looked down at her ankle. The spell that had held Palamon and Alistair wavered. Alistair lunged forwards, and the spell snapped. Belda, who had raised Ser Mark's sword to prod at its owner, tottered and cried out, a single high note like the scream of a hunting hawk. Palamon swayed and collapsed on his face in the dirt.

Alistair landed on hands and knees next to his sword. Panting, he snatched up the weapon and took hold of the hilt rather than the blade more by luck than judgment. The leather was warm in his grip as he forced his stiff fingers around the hilt. Blood tingled in his fingers and toes as life returned to his body. The cramps were bad enough that they would have near incapacitated him on the training field, but right now, there was no time. He would deal with the pain later. If he survived.

Alistair lunged forwards. The firelight gleamed from the blade. Belda looked up, alerted by the sudden flash. She angled the sword upwards to block Alistair's blow, but there was no time, and she had had no weapons training.

Alistair's blade cut cleanly across her throat.

Belda jerked once, gasped and fell. Alistair collapsed onto his knees beside the body. The red gush of blood from the severed arteries in the witch's corpse soaked his hands and then his knees, but he had neither the energy nor the breath to crawl away.

He sat like that for a long minute, teeth gritted against the cramps, sweat cooling clammily between his shirt and his back. When he could move again, he stood up, leaning on his sword, and walked to check on Ser Palamon. The initiate lay only steps away, but it seemed like an eternity to Alistair. Palamon was face down in the mud, but he was breathing and seemed well enough, even if unconscious. Alistair rolled Palamon on his side, crooked his arm underneath his head so he didn't choke on his own tongue, and went to check on the only other living person in the clearing.

Ser Mark's hand was still locked around the witch's lifeless foot. The Templar had rolled onto his back and lay with his face upturned to the firelight. There was a deep gash across his throat, but it was oozing rather than gushing blood. Still, Alistair thought the Templar dead at first. He knelt down, expecting a corpse, and was surprised when Ser Mark opened his eyes. "She's dead?" he asked, in a voice that seemed too strong for a dying man.

Alistair nodded.

"Good," Ser Mark said. He closed his eyes and appeared to doze off. Alistair ripped a strip from the hem of his tunic and hesitated, twisting the strip between his hands. Was it correct to apply a tourniquet a bleeding wound, if the wound was on the throat? He'd wanted to strangle Ser Mark many times before, but he was damned if he was going to do it unintentionally.

Palamon saved the Templar from strangulation by rolling over and sitting up. He rubbed at his arms and coughed.

"Is the old witch dead?" he asked.

Alistair nodded.

"Thank the Maker." Palamon hacked up a glob of mucus. "Andraste's name! I feel like I've just gone through ten sparring rounds with Ser Mark." He got up gingerly. "How is the old bastard, anyway? I thought he was dead."

"He's not. Nearly, but not quite."

Palamon nodded. "That _was_ him that saved us, wasn't it."

"Yes."

"But _you_ killed her?"

"Yes,"

"That was blood magic, wasn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure it was, yes." Alistair said woodenly.

"Then it's a miracle we survived," Palamon said cheerfully -far _too_ cheerfully, in Alistair's opinion, for somebody who was stuck in the woods with three corpses and one barely living man. "Ser Mark was right about her after all!" He crossed the campsite to peer at the corpses of Ser Kyan and Ser Percival.

"Good. You can tell him so later. I'm sure he'll be pleased. Now let's…"

Ser Palamon interrupted "She really was a maleficar!" He peered at the slash in Ser Kyan's throat, but did not touch the corpse. "She did all this?"

Alistair ignored the question. "I don't think she was," he said glumly. He checked Ser Mark's pulse and was relieved to find that it was strong. He rolled the strip of cloth up that he had been planning to use as a bandage and pressed it to the wound. The blood slowed, but did not stop.

Palamon frowned. "What do you mean, you don't think she was?" He waved a hand around the camp. "She killed Ser Percival! And Ser Kyan! And she nearly killed Ser Mark! And us," he added as an afterthought.

Alistair tore another strip of cloth from his surcoat. "D'you think that she would have tried all that if she hadn't been desperate?"

Palamon's brow furrowed as if Alistair had asked a far too difficult question. "Who cares!" He slapped Alistair on his back. "She did and that's that. Now let's gather some trees, make a litter and we can all go home."

"Denerim's too far." Alistair said. He reached over the almost-corpse that was Ser Mark and measured the diameter of a sapling with his hand. The tree was far too thin to make a litter that was going to have to carry Ser Mark the best part of a day's march. "We'll have to go back to the village. We can send a messenger from there."

"D'you think they'll welcome us?"

Alistair wondered when he had suddenly become the man with all the answers. "I don't think they'll like it." He shrugged and measured up another sapling. This one felt better. "What other choice have we got? It's not worth heading straight for Denerim. "He glanced at Ser Mark's still and waxen face. But for the shrill whistling of his breath, the Templar could have been dead. "He'll never make it that far."

"I suppose you're right," Palamon said as he hacked down a small tree. "Still, however little they like us, they won't turn us away."

Alistair shrugged. He wasn't so sure. "I don't know. Even back to the village is a long way. He might not even make it there." He recalled the bandits. "_We_ might not even make it there.

"Oh, we will," Palamon said optimistically.

He turned out to be right, but it was a very long road. A journey that had taken four Templars and one old but reasonably well dressed and healthy woman took two weary initiates dragging a makeshift stretcher two days. Burdened by the litter, Alistair and Palamon hadn't expected the journey to take as long as it did, so they were hungry as well as exhausted when the village came in sight. Worse, Ser Mark's condition had deteriorated since leaving the camp. He woke once during the journey, asked for water, and then sank back into semi-consciousness. His strength was fading fast. It was a pity, Alistair thought, that there didn't seem to be any corresponding decrease in Ser Mark's weight. For all his weakness, the man was heavy.

They saw a few peasants working the fields before they reached the village, but they didn't look up, or even acknowledge their existence. Alistair begged some water off one man they found working near the path, but apart from a sympathetic glance at the dying Ser Mark he did not offer more. "Why're you carrying him along?" the peasant asked as Ser Palamon emptied his water-skin. "He'll be dead by nightfall."

Alistair wiped sweat from his temples. "We've got to try."

"Suit yourself," the peasant said, and left them.

By the time they reached the makeshift palisade of the village, Ser Mark was barely alive. Alistair had to place a palm over his mouth to check his breathing when they lowered the litter in the town square. He felt a faint current of air on his palm and looked around. "Where is everyone?"

Ser Palamon shrugged. The village looked unchanged. Alistair felt as if they had left several years ago, but it had only been a few days. Despite the noise he was sure they had made as they dragged the litter in, there was nobody around.

"Hello," Alistair shouted. Nobody replied. A flock of pigeons roosting on one of the houses took fright at his voice and fluttered off in a clatter of wings. Ser Palamon jumped. Ser Mark moaned. As the clapping of the pigeons wings died away, and door creaked open and a thin figure limped out. As he came closer, they realized that it was the old peasant Tobias.

"Templars," he said, as he came up to them. "Back again. Come to take more of us, have you." He peered at Palamon and Alistair and then down at the dying man. "Well?"

"No," Palamon said. "We need help."

The old man shook his head. "You won't find it here. Where's Bel?"

"It's in your best interest to offer succor-' Ser Palamon began.

"I doubt that very much," the old peasant said. "Where's Bel?"

"She's dead." Alistair said reluctantly.

Tobias nodded as if he had been expecting the news. "I thought as such. What of the others? There were more when you left."

"Dead too."

"Bandits?"

"No." Alistair said. He wondered whether or not to volunteer more information, but decided that the old man had a right to know. "It was Belda's magic."

There was a long silence. Alistair used it to wonder whether or now Tobias would ask what had happened, but if the old man was curious, he hid it well. "Well," he said eventually, and spat. "Gone to join her daughter, so she has."

Alistair's heart sank. "Her daughter's dead?"

"Died in childbirth. This very morning."

"I'm sorry."

"We will pray for her," Ser Palamon said, rubbing his blistered hands upon his breeches.

Tobias shook his head. "Save your prayers. They won't bring Anna back. Or Belda for that matter." He sighed, scuffed his shoe in the dirt and looked at Alistair. "Did Bel die peacefully? Her daughter sure didn't."

_No_, Alistair thought, _she died with the blood of two murdered Templars on her hands_. He swallowed and said, "It was quick."

Tobias looked skeptical. "I hoped as much. She never did anything but good for us in her life." He scowled. "And what have you brought us? Nothing but death and pain, that's what."

Palamon was beginning to lose what little patience hunger and exhaustion had left him. "We can save the theology for later, Ser. Our comrade is in need of help."

Tobias looked at them all as if he would be perfectly happy to let them stand in the square until they all died of sheer exhaustion. "Do you now? What sort of help would that be?"

Alistair gestured at Ser Mark lying prone on his stretcher. "We need a healer," he said. "Isn't that obvious?"

"Then it's a pity that you took the only one this village had now, isn't it?"

Palamon looked around. "Where is everyone else? Maybe they would be able to-"

Tobias interrupted him. "They don't want any part in this, boy. And who's to blame them? Swanning around in your uniforms, carrying one of us off to the Circle, and her never coming back. Denying her daughter help? You could have waited."

"If we wait now, this man will die," Alistair snapped.

Tobias sucked his teeth. "Why should I care?"

"There may be gold in it for you," Ser Palamon said persuasively. It didn't work.

"More like a passel of men with swords. We don't want that. Not again."

"Shut up, Palamon," Alistair said between gritted teeth. "You're not helping."

Tobias sighed. "All I can give you is rest for one night. We'll decide what to do with you in the morning. You know where Bel's house is. You can stay there, where you won't get in the way."

"We're not going to get in the way." Alistair said through his teeth.

Tobias nodded cynically. "Right you are. Now get you going." He pointed towards the closed door of Belda's cottage.

Alistair and Palamon lifted the litter between them. Tobias didn't help. He stood in the centre of the square and watched them go with a weary worried expression as they dragged the litter across the marketplace.

"Fat lot of use that was," Ser Palamon said before they were half way across the square.

Alistair agreed. "They don't want us here," he said, searching for the needle of hope in the haystack of utter disaster that was their ordained mission. "At least they let us stay."

Palamon grunted. "Any noble would have offered us help and healing," he said as they lowered the litter to the ground outside the closed door of the cottage. "It doesn't seem right to stay in a dead woman's house, anyway."

Alistair edged the door open. "It doesn't, but it's better than sleeping out in the woods again-" He paused in surprise as light illuminated the shabby room."Maker's name! Was it always like this? I thought there was more furniture."

"Let me see," Palamon elbowed him out of the way and glanced around at the mostly bare room. It looked as if the villagers had looted the few sticks of furniture that Belda had owned. A few bags of herbs were piled up in the corner, but that was all. "They've taken everything."

"They knew she wasn't coming back," Alistair said.

"She was going to the Tower. Of course she wasn't coming back," Palamon said. He shaded his eyes and looked up at the sleeping loft. "There might still be a pallet up there, if we can get to it. Those bastards have taken the ladder. "He shrugged."How are you at climbing? If we can't get up to the loft, we'll just have to sleep on the floor."

"It looks like they left some elfroot anyway," Alistair said practically. "Come on. Help me get him inside."

They maneuvered the stretcher through the narrow door with difficulty and set it on the floor. The makeshift contraption creaked, but it held. Palamon gazed at it skeptically. "We got here just in time. This thing is starting to give out."

Alistair was already investigating the pile of herb pouches. He picked up a bag marked 'elfroot' and frowned at what he found inside. "D'you think we should mix this up with water and make himi drink it? Or would a poultice be better?" He'd seen elfroot in vials and poultices a hundred times, but he didn't recognize the spiky plant inside the pouch. "Hang on, is this even elfroot?"

Palamon shrugged. "Damned if I know. Do I look like a healer?"

Alistair scowled. He drew the plant out carefully from the pouch and laid it on the side of Ser Mark's stretcher. "No. You don't. But right now you're the only one we've got."

"Then I feel sorry for the poor sod," Palamon peered at Ser Mark's drawn face. "And I never thought that I would say that. Templars are supposed to die in battle, not in some stinky cottage."

"You think he's going to die?"

"Probably. You?"

"Yes." A thought struck Alistair. "What did you say about not coming back?"

Palamon frowned, and then his brow cleared. "I said the peasants knew she wasn't coming back. Because let's face it, the only mages who go to the Tower and live are the ones they think can be of use, or the ones that started off there in the first place."

"What happens to the others?"

"Made Tranquil." Palamon shrugged. "Or they kill them. What's so wrong with that?"

"What's so wrong? Well, for one thing, if they didn't kill all of the illegal healers then, I don't know, there might be one here right now here to help us."

Palamon scowled. "You're forgetting that she was the one who killed everybody in the first place, Alistair." He glanced at the Templar Sergeant's still face. "Except for Ser Mark and she'll have killed him by tomorrow. His brain just hasn't caught up with his body yet."

"Don't say that! He might still recover." Alistair said quickly. He slid a glance at Ser Mark's face, but the Templar remained oblivious. "Maybe he'll survive," he said against all hope and common sense."Maybe if we get some elfroot into him, that'll help-"

"Not enough," Palamon said practically. "Let's look on the bright side in all this. We can't do him much more harm at this point. So it doesn't really matter how we prepare the elfroot. It's still better than nothing. And it probably won't make any difference, anyway."

It didn't. When they woke the next morning. Ser Mark was dead. He looked peaceful enough, if white as chalk.

Palamon and Alistair laid out his body, closed his eyes and wondered what they should do.

"We should take his body back," Palamon said. "Or burn it."

"Do you really think we'll get his body back to the Chantry?" Alistair said. "I've got my doubts we'll even get ourselves back. And he's dead."

"No," Palamon admitted. "I suppose better one body left here then three between here and Denerim. Maybe we can say an Andrastian service for him-"

He was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.

Alistair got up and opened it. Unsurprisingly, it was Tobias. "How's your man?"

"He's dead," Alistair told him.

Tobias nodded. "Thought as much." He shrugged. "Another body for us to bury."

Palamon leaned forwards. "Bury?"

Tobias came in and shut the door. His face was unshaved and tired. "Look, I said we weren't Andrastians. We've been up all night discussing this. He'll go back to the earth. We'll do that for you while you travel. You boys have a long way to go. They'll be expecting you in Denerim."

Alistair and Palamon looked at each other in exhaustion. They'd stayed up half the night watching over Ser Mark, and that was on top of the tortuous two-day hike.

"We've got to go? Now?"

Tobias sighed. "We can't feed any more extra mouths. You aren't our folk. We don't owe you anything except for a good few lumps to the head, and I reckon someone's already done that for you. You look worn out. Best to get back home where you belong. We don't want any more knights here, so we'll send provisions. Just enough to get you back to Denerim, if you walk fast." He shoved a small hessian bag at Alistair, who took it more out of surprise than anything else."Call it an incentive. Take what you need, and be on your way."

"What about him?" Alistair jerked his thumb back at Ser Mark.

"Like I said, we'll take care of him."

"Burial goes against the Maker," Palamon said. "He was a Templar, man! Don't you know what that means?" A Tobias's blank look he quoted "For he who trusts in the Maker, fire is his water. As the moth seems light and goes towards flame, he should see fire, and go towards Light. Don't you understand that?"

The old man shrugged. "Our ways are not your ways," he said.

Alistair put a hand on Palamon's arm. The other initiate looked ready to draw his sword. "Please," he begged. "We'll go now. But can't you just do this? It'll be less work that burying him either way." He was not bothered one way or another, but he knew that Ser Mark would have wanted a traditional funeral. And right now, after a bad night's sleep on a hard floor with no food and precious little medicine; he felt that he owed the dead Templar more than he owed the villagers."Come on, you bastards. Please?"

Tobias scratched his head. He said nothing.

"It'd have meant a lot to him," Palamon interjected.

Tobias looked from face to face and appeared to come to a decision, possibly that it was easiest to agree and deal with the consequences after they had gone. "What do I care what he'd have wanted? Don't bear that man anything but ill will. But," he added hastily as Palamon's hand once again reached for his sword, "all right. I'll see to it myself. But you'll have to leave. Leave now. We don't want you here. Sooner you're gone, sooner we can put things back how they used to be. This is best forgotten."

"We'll just say a few words," Palamon said.

Tobias gave a huge sigh. "Son, I don't care particularly one way or another. Say what you like, just as long as you say it quickly,"

"The Maker says that it is a sin to commit a body to the flames without the proper funeral rites," Palamon told him.

"The Maker might say that, but he isn't here, is he lad? Right here there's me and I'm telling you to get out of here because," he jerked his thumb at the door, "it might not be too healthy for you to stay. And I don't care how many swords you've got between you."

"You threaten us?" asked Palamon.

Tobias sucked his teeth and looked at Ser Palamon's sword doubtfully. "Wouldn't dare."

Palamon bristled. "You mock-"

Alistair stopped him. "Stop it. We'll go now. He turned back to the corpse of Ser Mark and muttered a few lines from the Canticle of Benedictions over the body. "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. We commend Ser Mark's body to the Maker's grace." He crossed his arms and bowed. "Rest in peace. And if he doesn't, then we will come looking."

Palamon nodded.

Tobias did not look the least bit intimidated. He held the door open for them both and then closed it behind them, cutting off Alistair's last view of the shapeless mound of cloth that was Ser Mark's body.

The Templars left the village in silence. They walked down the path in what Alistair thought was the right direction-at least it was the opposite direction to the path they had followed out of the wilds. Neither of them spoke for a long time. When the roofs of the houses had disappeared behind the horizon Palamon stretched. "That's that, then."

"Yes."

"Do you think they'll really burn him?"

"I hope so," Alistair said pessimistically.

"Really? I don't." Palamon glanced wearily back at their path. "That peasant deserves whatever's coming to him. I hope he wanders lost in the Fade. Are you sure this is the right way?"

Alistair ignored the blasphemy. "Pretty sure. What? You've got a better idea?"

Palamon shook his head. "No clue," he said. 'Your guess is as good as mine." He sighed. "It's a long way to Denerim."

It was.

It took them longer than they had expected, much longer. However, eventually the marshy moorland gave way to farms and open fields. The road became easier. Alistair and Palamon pushed on, and arrived at Denerim early one evening as the sun was setting. Palamon smiled and pointed at the sunset light reflecting off the white marble of Fort Drakon tower. "We're home."

It was the first time Alistair had ever been glad to see the Chantry, and it was the first time they'd ever seemed glad to see him, even if the first words out of the Templar gate guard's mouth was, "Where are they all?"

Alistair sighed. "They're all dead," he said.

That simple sentence got them both in to see Knight Commander Glavin faster than any royal herald or messenger could have done. To Alistair, it seemed like a bad dream. The Knight Commander peered at them over the same tall desk as he had done when Ser Mark had dragged them into the chamber only a few days ago. He dabbed grease from his mouth with a napkin as he sank into the chair one of the guards pulled out for him. The gate guards bowed and left. Glavin did not speak until the heavy door had creaked shut behind them. Alistair's legs, already wearied with walking, were burning by the time he finally spoke. "My sons?"

Palamon knelt hastily. Alistair followed suit.

"You may stand," the Knight Commander said. His gaze flicked from face to tense face as they got to their feet. "What has happened?" he asked.

Palamon jerked his head towards Alistair. "Tell him," he said.

Alistair did. He was glad that Palamon had volunteered him, because it gave him the chance to edit events. So he left out his own doubts and Lady Belda's speech because he didn't think the Knight Commander would want to hear them." Palamon's eyes narrowed over a couple of the more imaginative retellings of events, but he said nothing. Alistair was glad. Maybe it was rank cowardice on his part, but there was no use preaching heresy to the converted.

The Knight Commander, to his credit, listened patiently to all of it. When Alistair had stuttered to a halt at last he said "But the maleficar is dead?"

Alistair nodded, bemused.

"Very well." The Knight Commander nodded. "Ser Mark did his job. A service will be held in his honor, and in the memory of Ser Kyan and Ser Percival. I shall expect you both to be there."

"Ser?"

The Knight Commander regarded Alistair balefully for a heartbeat. When Alistair was almost certain that his own heart was going to leap out of his mouth Glavin nodded and said, "What is it?"

"Ser, what happens now? To the villagers, and Ser Percival, and Ser Kyan?"

"Hm," Ser Glavin said in a deep voice that sounded as if the rust from his armor had percolated into it over the years. "I suppose that you have earned the right to know. I will send Templars to the village, of course, in order to verify Ser Mark's death and his right and proper funeral. They will then travel into the wilds to retrieve the bodies of Ser Kyan and Ser Percival, assuming there is anything left to burn." He sighed. "The wilds can be a cruel place."

Alistair dared another question. "You won't punish the villagers?"

The Knight-Commander frowned. "That is not for you to decide. Their judgment shall be appropriate."

"But-"

"I said that is all." Knight Commander Glavin said mildly. His mouth forced itself into a rictus smile. "You have fulfilled your duties admirably. You are a credit to the Order. Go, get some rest. And pray for Ser Mark's soul. I shall be watching your progress with great interest. I think you shall both do well."

Alistair nodded. He bowed and escaped as fact as his tired feet would carry him.

Once they were outside in the corridor, Ser Palamon punched him friendlily on the arm. "That went better than I expected."

"It did?"

"Of course. I think he was impressed."

"Really? I don't think so."

"You don't? He said he'd be watching us. That's an honor!"

"It sounded more like a threat."Alistair said.

"The maleficar's dead. What's the problem?"

"Oh, I don't know," Alistair said sarcastically. "Maybe the fact that he just lost three of his men,"

"They died a warrior's death in battle," Palamon replied. "So should we all aspire to. " He cheered up despite the dismal subject. "You'll see. Things will be better now for us. The nobles are sure to be impressed. They're bound to be friendlier, and such connections could lead us to great things. The Knight Commander himself thinks highly of us! Who knows where we'll end up?"

_Probably dead in a ditch like the others_, Alistair thought glumly, but he knew better than to voice his concerns to Palamon. The initiate's enthusiasm was infectious, and it was hard not to become caught up. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Palamon said. "You'll see!" He threw a friendly arm around Alistair's shoulders. "Back to the dorms, then, huh?"

"Yeah," Alistair said without enthusiasm. He ducked out from under Palamon's arm. "You go on ahead. I'll see you there."

Palamon looked surprised. "Suit yourself." He wiped ineffectively at his face and loped off down the corridor, shouting a cheery greeting at the first cadet to come along, who looked surprised and faintly horrified to see such a bedraggled apparition in the Chantry's hallowed halls. Alistair watched him disappear down the corridor. When Palamon had vanished, he sighed and slouched off in the opposite direction.

He had not planned to go anywhere, but his feet carried him back to the old graveyard where Palamon and his friends had interrupted him. Days ago, really, but it seemed like years. Alistair had seen his first taste of action, and he had liked it even less than he expected. He'd killed a woman who he really wasn't sure had deserved to die, or at least no more than Ser Kyan and Ser Percival had done. And all the Chantry cared about was that the witch was dead. And they'd said that he'd done well.

He sighed. The walls of the Chantry closed in around him, taller and thicker than ever before.

_I'll never get out of here_, he thought. _This is my life now. Fit only to apprehend rogue mages in return for a bed in the Chantry and all the lyrium I can drink…_

It felt as if he had lost something, some image of future happiness, gone forever. Ser Mark would probably have called it growing up.

He sighed, slouched into the dormitory and headed back to his friends.

Finis.

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